


Soldier, Poet, King

by Glare



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Dathomir, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Force Bonds, Frottage, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Marking, Murder, Oh My God Ben Why Are You Like This, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Padawan Kenobi is in for a Bad Time, Possessive Behavior, Prophecy, Sith Obi-Wan, Slow Burn, The Jedi Council makes bad decisions, Time Travel, Unhealthy Relationships, Vader is terrible at being a hero, Vaderkin, please send help this is not how I intended this to go, pre-TPM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 102,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7475079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second chances are very rarely given, but the Force smiles upon two of its favorite children and returns them to a time before their actions have met their consequences. Anakin Skywalker, also known as Darth Vader, seeks redemption while Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi, disillusioned with the Jedi Order and its Code, falls to the Darkness. Trapped out of time, Master and Apprentice must once again work together to stop Sideous’ plans from reaching fruition and bring Balance to the Force—all the while dodging the Jedi, the Sith, and their feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I am super uncomfortable about this, but I have poured countless hours into this ridiculous AU over the last two months so just sue me.
> 
> This started as a joke with myself about how many star wars fic tropes I could rub my grubby paws all over at once and very quickly became not a joke. It grew into a rabid hydra of a plot bunny that refuses to release me from its clutches. So just punch me in the face, basically.
> 
> As I said, not super confidant about this chapter. Could have edited it more, but it's almost 5 AM here as I post this and I'm tired ok.

 

**A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night**

**may still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright.**

**If you could only see the beast you made of me**

**I've held it in but now it seems you've set it running free.**

**Howl, Florence + the Machine**

* * *

 

The massive, pyramidal structure of the Malachor Sith temple looms before them, and Padawan Kenobi can’t shake off the unease that seems to have settled into his bones. This is a planet where Jedi have not set foot for a thousand years. Darkness hangs over the air like a cloak, and the frozen remains of both ancient Jedi and Sith warriors dot the landscape like grotesque statuary. There is no light here in the caves below the planet’s thin surface; their path is lit only by what can squeeze through the cracks in the surface crust and the glow of Qui-Gon’s lightsaber. Obi-Wan’s own hangs unlit at his waist.

“Careful, Padawan.” Qui-Gon reprimands when Obi-Wan trips over a disembodied arm in the darkness.

“Sorry,” Kenobi whispers, irrationally afraid of disturbing the dead. He edges closer to his Master when he rights himself, both for security and to fend off the chill that permeates the air around them. “I don’t like the feel of this place.”

“You shouldn’t,” Qui-Gon tells him. “This place is an affront to everything the Jedi stand for.”

Obi-Wan wants to snap that he knows this, wants to ask why the Council assigned them this mission if it’s such an abhorrence, but holds his tongue. The Darkness of this place is putting him on edge, and it is not his place to question the decisions of the Council—his Master does enough of that for the both of them. Instead, he turns his head to study his Master.

They’ve come to a stand-still at the foot of the temple, and Qui-Gon stares up at its peak with a scowl. There’s more grey in his hair than there was when he first took Obi-Wan as his Padawan, and there are wrinkles around his eyes that suggest that the darkness of this place is straining on him as much as it is Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan only notices these things because he has stood at the man’s side for years now; to the untrained eye, he still looks the part of cool and confidant Jedi Master, though.  Obi-Wan may disagree with a number of his Master’s decisions, but he still has great respect for the man who chose to train him against all odds. Qui-Gon is reckless and fanciful and values the will of the Force over the Council’s decisions, but he is also clever and loyal and compassionate—a pillar of strength within the Living Force. Even now, on this wasteland of a planet, at the very doors of their enemy’s fortress, he does not shy away from what must be done.

“How are we supposed to get in?” Obi-Wan asks, his gaze flicking away from Qui-Gon to scan the smooth stone that makes up the side of the temple. There is nothing to indicate a door of any kind, beyond a small groove in the stone just around waist height.

Qui-Gon makes a considering noise, then steps forward to study the strange groove in the otherwise flawless stone surface. From his belt he produces something that looks vaguely like a holocron. Unlike the Jedi holocron that Obi-Wan has seen, which are square and usually blue in color, this particular one is pyramidal and a deep red. It all but emanates darkness from where it rests in Qui-Gon’s palm.

“Is that—?” He asks as Qui-Gon slots the object into the groove with a click.

“A Sith holocron, yes.” The Master says, stepping back a few paces and pulling Obi-Wan with him.

The very earth seems to shudder, and Obi-Wan grabs hold of Qui-Gon’s sleeve to keep himself balanced. As they watch, a slab of stone at the center of the temple slowly rises, revealing a passageway. It is as ominous as everything else they’ve seen so far. Something from within glows faintly red, and Obi-Wan can’t help but be reminded of the gaping maws of dangerous fauna, poised to devour unsuspecting prey.

Qui-Gon steps toward the tunnel, collecting the holocron as he goes, and Obi-Wan falls into step behind him. The Master returns the holocron to his utility belt, and they walk in silence for a few minutes.

“How did you know that would work?” The Padawan asks, curiosity finally getting the better of him. He trails just behind his Master as they make their way through the temple’s halls. The walls are decorated with carvings and words in a language long forgotten; their footsteps echo loudly in the eerie silence.

“Ancient records indicate that Sith holocron may function like keys, in certain temples. I had no way to know for certain if it would work as such here, but the Council believed it prudent that we take one with us, so we may err on the side of caution. This particular holocron has resided in the Black Vaults below the Jedi Temple since it was recovered in the last great Sith war.”

“What’s on it?”

“Who knows,” Qui-Gon says with a wry grin. “Only a Dark Side user can open a Sith holocron. As such, no Jedi has been able to open it and uncover its secrets.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan mutters. He questions the merit of taking a holocron filled with unknown and potentially dangerous information away from the safety of the Jedi temple, but again, it’s not his place to question the decisions of the Council.

When they round the next corner, the hallway before them abruptly splits off in two different directions and Obi-Wan is spared having to brood on the subject for a few heartbeats. Both Master and Padawan still just before the split. Qui-Gon studies the paths, the scowl returning to his face as he does so.

“Sith adhere to a Rule of Two,” Qui-Gon explains without prompting. He had long ago learned of his Padawan’s inquisitive nature. “One Master and one Apprentice. When the Apprentice grew strong enough, they would kill their Master and take on a student of their own…”

A sigh.

“I suspect this to be a test of sorts. I don’t like the idea of splitting up, but it is unlikely we will be able to reach the heart of the temple by taking one path alone.”

“I am nearly a Knight now, Master,” Obi-Wan is quick to assure, “I can handle anything this temple may throw at me. There is nothing that the Darkness can tempt me with.”

“Of course, Padawan,” Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan thinks that there is a wariness in his Master’s eyes that doesn’t belong there. His smile is almost sad. “But take this with you. Just in case.”

The Master retrieves the holocron from his utility belt and presses it into Obi-Wan’s palms. It’s unusually warm to the touch—a sharp contrast to the chill that’s managed to sink into the Padawan’s very bones.

“You may need it more than I,” Jinn explains, watching Obi-Wan carefully pocket the small device.

Obi-Wan makes to reach for his lightsaber, but is halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. His Master is still wearing that sad smile, and his brows are creased with concern.

“Master?”

“Be safe, Padawan,” is all Jinn says, squeezing Obi-Wan’s shoulder gently before stepping away and proceeding down the right tunnel.

Obi-Wan ignites his saber, and begins down his own tunnel.

__

Obi-Wan expects his next step to land on solid stone, as the others before it have, and is understandably startled when the ground beneath his foot gives way—crumbling and falling into a yawning abyss. His lightsaber slips from his grip, thankfully deactivating in the process, but there’s no way he can scrape together the concentration to summon it back to his hand in this situation. There is the brief sensation of falling, and for a single, terrifying heartbeat Obi-Wan believes that this Force-forsaken temple will actually get the better of him. And then—

Nothing.

There is no wind rushing in his ears; no stomach-churning feeling of weightlessness. His robes are drawn tight around his throat and chest, but he no longer feels like he’s tumbling to his demise. Something flickers in the Force nearby. He can’t quite pin it down, the presence slipping between his fingers like sand every time he reaches for it.

“Try not to move,” A sudden, unfamiliar voice says from somewhere behind him. Obi-Wan jerks in surprise, earning a displeased hiss from his potential rescuer and another snarl to _be still_ , and then he’s being hauled backwards and up onto solid ground. His lightsaber is, unfortunately, not so lucky, dropping into the seemingly bottomless crevasse and swallowed by the Darkness.

It’s another moment, once he can feel smooth stone against his knees and palms, before Obi-Wan can force his mind, near whited-out in terror, to cooperate. He’s in a potentially (or not-so potentially, as it did just try to kill him) hostile Sith temple, separated from his Master, with a complete stranger. And now he’s unarmed. This is exactly the kind of situation that Qui-Gon had wanted him to avoid when he asked Obi-Wan to stay safe.

The Padawan can hear his rescuer panting somewhere behind him with the exertion of pulling him to safety. Around him, the Force is still flickering in that strange and somewhat unsettling way. The adrenaline from his near-death experience is draining away as his heartbeat steadies and his thoughts clear; the shout that caught in his throat when his fall began slips through his teeth as a choked sob—whether it is of fear or relief, even Obi-Wan doesn’t know.

Forcing his body to move, Obi-Wan shifts until he can get a good look at his savior.

His rescuer is a human male, likely only a few years older than Obi-Wan himself. Blonde hair tumbles down to shoulders in unruly curls, and dark, battered robes, vaguely similar to those worn by the Jedi, pool on the floor around him. He’s kneeling on the floor a few paces behind Obi-Wan, hunched over and supporting himself on his palms while he catches his breath. One of his hands, the Padawan notes, glows strangely in the dim light of the tunnel. It takes him a moment to piece together that the limb must be artificial. When the man looks up to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze, his eyes are a deep blue.

“You should be more careful,” The man says, a teasing lilt to his voice despite still being out of breath. There’s something strange about that, but Obi-Wan isn’t sure what. “This place is dangerous.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Obi-Wan responds, pushing himself to his feet in attempt to appear even somewhat intimidating. Qui-Gon often teases him that he could not intimidate a mouse droid with his young face; he desperately wishes he still had his lightsaber. “Which begs the question: who are you and what are you doing here?”

The man smirks and, too, rises. He’s got a good few inches on Obi-Wan, the padawan notes unhappily. So much for intimidation. “My name is Anakin Skywalker, and I’m exploring these ruins.”

His words ring true in the Force, and though Obi-Wan can’t sense any ill intent from the man, he can’t help but be suspicious. “Seems like a strange place to explore. Surely there are other, safer places you could have gone?”

“Of course. But I have unfinished business in this place,” The amused smirk Anakin had been wearing up to that point slowly drops from his face, brows creasing with whatever memory is playing behind his eyes. “I had to leave pretty quickly, the last time I was here. I was injured.”

“One would think that you would learn your lesson the first time.”

The smile Anakin gives him is painfully forced. “One would think.”

The brief silence that falls between them is awkward, and Obi-Wan finds himself shifting restlessly from foot to foot. He needs to move forward, needs to meet Qui-Gon, but now there is quite literally no path for him to take now that the floor has caved in. He can’t see where the tunnel continues on the other side.

And then there’s Skywalker. Obi-Wan can feel the hairs on the back of his neck pricking under the other man’s gaze as the Padawan studies the crevasse before them. The man’s breathing has, for the most part, settled now, but there is still something off about it. Each breath is shaky and uneven—the pauses between them too long, like he’s having to remember to take each one.

Obi-Wan turns back to face the other man, and for a heartbeat thinks he sees gold in Anakin’s eyes. By the time he blinks, however, they are blue again.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“What? Oh. No, I’m fine. It’s just been a while since I’ve done this,” Anakin murmurs distractedly, still studying Obi-Wan closely.

 _Done what? Breathe?_ Obi-Wan wants to retort, but Anakin speaks again, effectively derailing that train of thought.

“What are you doing here? I mean, where are you going?”

“I’m searching for the heart of the temple, though it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting there any time soon.”

Anakin considers him for a moment more before saying, “I’m heading there as well. Come on, we’ll go together.”

“And how do you expect to get there?” Obi-Wan looks pointedly at the gaping hole in the floor before them.

“There are other paths.”

With an encouraging gesture, Skywalker turns away and sets off in the direction Obi-Wan came from. The padawan looks between his retreating form and his blocked path, then follows after him. He needs to meet Qui-Gon, and he clearly isn’t going any further on this path. Besides, Anakin seems… alright. He isn’t triggering any of Obi-Wan’s instincts, at least. He saved Obi-Wan from falling, and doesn’t seem to be up to anything. Just an adventurer in the wrong place at the right time. If he knows another path to the heart of the temple, it would be foolish to waste that knowledge.

The passage Anakin leads Obi-Wan to is hidden behind a jagged rock formation and nearly invisible to the untrained eye. It’s also incredibly dark, even compared to the already dim temple interior. Obi-Wan desperately wishes for his lightsaber back.

“What’s the matter?” Anakin asks when he notices Obi-Wan’s hesitation. “Afraid of the dark?”

The teasing look is back in his eyes, and Obi-Wan scowls at the man in return. “No. I just don’t think it wise to enter a potentially booby-trapped tunnel without being able to see what’s in front of us.”

“Come on, it’s perfectly safe! I’ll go first, if it’ll make you feel better.” A pause, and with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, Skywalker adds, “I’ll even let you hold my hand.”

Obi-Wan barrels past him and into the tunnel without another word. He can hear Skywalker laughing as the other man follows behind.

__

There is light at the end of the tunnel, and Obi-Wan heaves a sigh of relief. His back is aching from the hunched position he’d had to take as the tunnel’s ceiling steadily grew lower and lower, and he feels a vindictive spike of pleasure in knowing that Anakin must be in even more discomfort thanks to his greater height.

 _Oh thank Force_ , he thinks he hears the man mutter when they’re finally out, but he isn’t really listening.

The room they’ve entered is undoubtedly the one they are looking for: a vast chamber, awash in red light. Pillars made of the same dark stone as the walls form neat lines through the room, holding aloft a ceiling so high that Obi-Wan can’t even make it out. Not an inch of this place is spared from carvings: geometric designs, ancient text, and pictures.

Two men in combat, back to back, cutting down a field of opponents; a figure in an insectoid mask, surrounded by bodies, kneeling before something hunched and robed; two children, one in the arms of a bearded man under twin suns and the other held by a couple before a vast mountain rage.

There are many, many more.

A choked noise comes from somewhere, and Obi-Wan turns to watch Skywalker run the fingers of his flesh hand almost reverently over a carving of a young woman standing before a crowd in what appears to be celebration. At her side are a young man and a boy—the only figures in the carving not smiling. Anakin traces each figure in turn, a strange tilt to his lips and an unidentifiable emotion behind his eyes. He’s murmuring something, too soft for Obi-Wan to make out the words, even with his Force-enhanced sentences. Around them, the Force is turbulent.

He doesn’t linger on Anakin’s strange behavior long, though. There, in the center of the room, is what they came for: the holocron. The small pyramidal device is almost an exact match to the one in Obi-Wan’s bag, if only a bit larger and more orange than red, when he pulls the temple’s holocron out to compare them.

Anakin is still standing over by the wall, investigating the carvings.

Qui-Gon has yet to arrive.

It worries him. What if Qui-Gon ran into trouble, like they did? What if he’s injured, bleeding out in some hall somewhere? What if he’s _dead_?

No, Obi-Wan would know if he died. Their Master-Padawan would surely alert him to that. But the Force is so wild here. When he closes his eyes and reaches for Qui-Gon, it feels like there’s static inside his mind; it feels like something’s interfering, like when someone else is trying to broadcast on the same com frequency.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

Obi-Wan starts, so lost in his head that he’d missed Anakin’s approach. The man hovers over his shoulder, eyes flickering between the Padawan and the holocron.

“I should probably wait…” Obi-Wan mumbles, thinking it wise not to go touching Dark Side artifacts without a Master, or at least an experienced Knight, present. But there’s still static in his mind, that image of Qui-Gon injured in the temple’s shadowed halls makes a reappearance, and suddenly retrieving the holocron himself doesn’t sound so terrible. The sooner he takes it, the sooner he can get to his Master.

When Obi-Wan reaches for it with his free hand, he meets an invisible field that keeps him from touching the holocron. A sharp sting races up his arm and he draws his arm back with a pained hiss.

“Here, let me help,” Anakin all but croons, directing Obi-Wan to follow his lead when he reaches up toward the holocron.

This time, with both their hands reaching out, they pass through the barrier with ease. They tug the holocron free, and Anakin relinquishes his grip on the device when Obi-Wan tries to pull it closer for inspection.

The new holocron, much like the other, is warm in his palm. This one, however, seems to pulse with a slick, oily Darkness far stronger than holocron one they brought with them. Obi-Wan wants to drop it, if only to be spared the mental sensation of inky black oozing through his fingers.

A hand lands on his shoulder—too small to be Qui-Gon’s. Anakin.

“Well done, Obi-Wan,” Skywalker praises, giving the Padawan’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze, “I bet Master Jinn will be proud to find you’ve beaten him to the holocron.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to tell him that it likely won’t be so, that his Master and the Council will likely lecture him on this as soon as they return to Coruscant, when the realization washes over him like a bucket of cold water.

He never told Anakin his name; he certainly never told him about Master Jinn.

Wrenching himself from the man’s grip, Obi-Wan spins in time to watch Anakin’s expression change from something that might be considered fond to disappointed realization as the other man puts together the pieces of Obi-Wan’s sudden rejection.

“Oh,” Anakin sighs, “I’ve ruined the surprise, haven’t I?”

There’s the sound of hurried footsteps on stone, but it feels a thousand miles away. In the moment, the Force is clearing, and with it comes a tide of Darkness the likes of which Obi-Wan has never felt before. The blue in Anakin’s eyes flows like water down a drain, replaced by the harsh gold Obi-Wan had seen earlier, but written off as a figment of his imagination.

“Who are you?” Obi-Wan snarls, trying put space between himself and Skywalker. A fruitless endeavor—for each step backward, Anakin takes one forward, until Obi-Wan can feel the rough, carved stone of a column at his back and there’s nowhere else to go.

“I told you the truth, Obi-Wan. My name is Anakin Skywalker.” Anakin purrs, grin predatory. “But if you prefer, you may call me Darth Vader.”

All at once, Qui-Gon’s words come back to him. The Master and the Apprentice; how he couldn’t get past the barrier to the holocron alone. The implications of his actions make him nauseous, and Obi-Wan regrets every decision he’s made up to and including parting ways with Qui-Gon at the fork in the path.

He’s in a hostile Sith temple, separated from his Master, and he’s unarmed. And oh, that perfectly friendly stranger that saved him? He’s a kriffing _Sith Lord_.

This is _definitely_ not what Qui-Gon meant when he told the Padawan to stay safe.

“Obi-Wan!” A familiar voice shouts, and the Padawan nearly sobs with relief at the sight of Qui-Gon Jinn emerging from another hall, green ‘saber alight in his hand and no worse for wear.

“Master!”

His view is blocked, however, when Anakin—Vader—steps between them.

“Get away from my Padawan,” Obi-Wan hears Qui-Gon snarl.

“Stay out of this, Jinn,” Vader snaps, and Obi-Wan desperately tries to think of a way to keep this situation from escalating.

He can’t be certain, but Vader doesn’t appear to have a weapon. At least, Obi-Wan hasn’t seen any of the tell-tale signs of a hidden weapon, anyways. That isn’t to say the Sith is unarmed—he’s heard enough stories about the terrifying things the Dark Side can make its users capable of doing. Qui-Gon isn’t going to back down without a fight. Not after Xanatos. The Master takes the challenges of Dark Side users personally, now. This is going to escalate, and quickly, if Obi-Wan doesn’t stop it.

If only he could think of a way to incapacitate Vader long enough for Qui-Gon to subdue him. But Obi-Wan, too, is unarmed and Vader is larger than him and—

And Vader has a weakness: his labored, awkward breathing.

All it takes is one strong, properly placed hit and the Sith is on the ground, gasping in attempt to replace the air that rushed from his lungs on impact.

Qui-Gon rushes forward and Obi-Wan moves to meet him, but suddenly neither of them are going in the direction they intended.

Obi-Wan’s muscles seize as if by their own accord, freezing him in place, helpless to do nothing but watch as his Master is sent flying across the vast hall. Qui-Gon hits the wall with a horrible _crack_ and slumps to the floor, limp.

Panic floods Obi-Wan’s mind, and he reaches desperately for the Master-Padawan bond that ties him to Jinn. With Vader no longer using the Force to mask his presence, the strange static in Obi-Wan’s mind has cleared and he can reach Qui-Gon. He’s not dead—just unconscious, thank the Force.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Vader struggling to his feet, breath ragged, one palm extended as he holds Obi-Wan motionless in his grasp.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that you’ve always been horribly crafty,” Vader coughs. He makes his way over to Obi-Wan slowly, still recovering from the hit. “You know, you’re making this so much harder than it has to be.”

“And what is this, then?” The Padawan asks. “Are you going to kill me? Kill my Master?”

“No, I’m not here to kill you. I need something else from you.”

“I will never be your Apprentice!” Kenobi spits.

This draws a laugh from Vader, eyes sparking with a joke only he is privy to. “Oh, I don’t want that from you either.”

Before the Padawan can ask another question, Vader plucks the holocron they just collected from Obi-Wan’s unresisting palm.

“This. This is what I came here for.”

Obi-Wan desperately struggles against Vader’s grip when the Sith begins to move toward Qui-Gon, but he’s too powerful. The Sith kneels before Jinn, reaching out with his flesh hand and pressing his fingers to the Master’s neck, checking his pulse. Apparently satisfied that the man isn’t dead, he collects Qui-Gon’s lightsaber from the floor where it’s fallen and thumbs it on.

“I’ll assume, since you brought one with you, that you know Sith holocrons can be used like keys.” Vader takes his time in his return, sauntering back to stand before Obi-Wan once more. He holds up the holocron in his mechanical hand. “This holocron goes to one lock in particular. In the wrong hands, this temple can become a powerful planetary weapon, capable of so much destruction…”

“I had originally planned to destroy the temple. I’d never be able to get to the holocron on my own, and have enough thermal detonators back in my ship to turn this place to rubble. Dangerous, but effective. A waste of what other resources may be found in this place—the history it contains. Your arrival made that unnecessary.” This time, Vader’s smile is soft and genuine. It makes Obi-Wan’s skin crawl. “I suppose I should thank you for that, old friend.”

There are about a hundred different layers to that sentence, and Obi-Wan would dissect them all if not for being suddenly released from Vader’s hold. The Padawan throws himself backwards just as Vader lashes out with Jinn’s lightsaber. The holocron the Council gave them slips from Kenobi’s grip, and the other clatters to the floor in singed pieces.

“There is some power that no one should possess,” Vader softly growls.

Obi-Wan can barely bring himself to breathe when Vader bends to collect the Council’s fallen holocron, as though afraid any sudden movement cause the Sith to turn on him. Jinn’s lightsaber slips from Vader's fingers and falls to the floor, forgotten.

“I hope you don’t mind if I borrow this?” Vader asks. Clearly rhetorically, as Obi-Wan would never give a Sith Lord anything, let alone something from the Black Vault.

And just like that, Vader is gone, striding off without so much as a goodbye. Obi-Wan is frozen in place until the sound of the man’s footsteps have faded away to nothing. Then, he’s rushing to Qui-Gon’s side, his Master coming around with soft groans of pain.

He and Obi-Wan have failed missions before—have been the subject of the Council’s disapproval more times than the Padawan can count. This, however, is going to take the cake.

__

Outside the temple, Vader makes his way back to his ship, quite pleased with how the day turned out. He’d successfully sabotaged Malachor’s planetary weapon, gained a new holocron, and gotten to see a young Obi-Wan in the process.

He doesn’t notice the hooded figure that stands just shy of the temple’s peak, watching him as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, two months brooding over this AU.  
> [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzVKsltzYdI) is the song that inspired this stupid AU. Also, I stole the title from here.  
> [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q--ITc020dg) is "Ben" Kenobi's theme for this AU, coincidentally by the same group.  
> [HERE](https://youtu.be/mPJ3UtqbBrQ) is Anakin/Vader's theme
> 
> Next Time: Jinn and Padawan!Kenobi will get yelled at by the Council, and we'll see what Master!Kenobi's been up to.  
> Also probably backstory.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Sith Lords, and a Council meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kind words about the first chapter! I'm so glad that there's some interest in this story.  
> Without further ado, chapter two!

Ben Kenobi’s nails bite into his palms where stands atop the Malachor Sith temple, watching his ex-Padawan saunter back to the hunk of scrap metal he’s currently calling a ship. With the holocron stolen from Jinn and Padawan Kenobi clutched in his hands, the boy has effectively managed to ruin yet another one of Ben’s plans. It is an impressive feat, considering Vader didn’t even know there was a plan to ruin, this time. It seems he gave the boy too much credit for how spectacularly their missions went awry during the Clone Wars—what Ben had chalked up to reckless intention appears to simply be an inborn gift for getting under his feet.

Even so, it doesn’t excuse the fact that Vader has, however inadvertently, sabotaged months of careful planning. The boy doesn’t have the slightest idea how much work Ben has to put into this mission—just how difficult it was to tip off the Order to the existence of this temple, to get Jinn and Kenobi assigned, to get the right holocron out of the Black Vault. Countless greased palms and enough mind tricks to exhaust even Ben’s considerable strength in the Force. So much work, and his prize is being carted away by the wrong Sith Lord.

 _Patience, Adelfos,_ the Dark whispers, _there is time yet_.

The new title still sounds strange in his ears despite that Dark has called him nothing but since his fall, and Ben absently wonders how long it took Vader to adjust to his. He seemed quite committed to it during their fight on Mustafar, mere hours after his renaming, but then Anakin always had the adaptability of a survivor. The power that accompanies Ben’s title is, at least, is a bit more familiar.

The Dark Side. In Maul, it had felt slimy and viscous, like oil; in Dooku, it was the sharp sting of a bitter winter’s night; in Anakin, a raging, ravenous inferno. For Ben, it is a river—placid at the surface with a swift current beneath, waiting to drag the unawares to its depths. He’s touched it before: in his youth, when he brawled with Bruck Chun; on Naboo, when he struck down Maul; at war, with Anakin at his back. Perhaps that is what makes it so easy to surrender to it, now.

Below, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are stumbling from the temple, Master supported by Padawan. It seems their encounter with Vader has not left them unscathed. Ben can’t say he’s particularly surprised, as the younger Sith has never been one for tact—especially since his fall. They don’t seem critically injured, to Vader’s credit. Just as bit shaken—as they should be, having come out of confrontation with the first Sith the Order will have seen in a thousand years. Ben can’t help the satisfaction that curls in gut at knowing that title will no longer belong to Maul. He watches his younger self help their Master to their ship, and can’t help but wonder if he was always meant to fall.

After his failed Initiate Trials, after Melida/Daan, after Maul and Qui-Gon. After Satine, after Ahsoka. After Padme and Anakin and Alderaan and the whole, Force-damned Jedi Order. After twenty years on Tattooine and after giving his life in the name of the Balance, all he’d wanted was rest.

To wake in an alley outside the Jedi temple, the red flash of Vader’s lightsaber still burning on his skin and behind his eyes, in a body twenty years too young, had felt like the ultimate betrayal. The Force around him glowed with the Light of the Jedi Order, and Ben had been so _angry_. Every breath he’d taken, every choice he’d made, had been in the name of the Light since he was six months old and taken from a nameless, faceless family. He’d fought a war, killed his brother, suffered in exile, and _died_ for the Light, and instead of the peace he expected in return, the Force returned him to a life he’d long since forsaken so that he might watch it happen all over again.

Falling had been so easy, it had to be by design.

 _You would know,_ he thinks, perhaps a bit petulantly, _if you had the holocron_.

He could have stopped Anakin, if he’d really wanted to. The boy was completely unaware of Ben’s presence, both here in the temple and in the past itself. The shock of seeing Ben alive would have given him enough of an advantage to overpower the younger man, even if Vader had been armed. He could have taken the holocron, left Vader there as a compensation prize for the two Jedi to take back to their temple, and been on his merry way.

But no. The Dark hisses unhappily when he considers that plan even now, as the Jedi craft is taking off into the atmosphere, the opportunity long gone. Now is not the time to reveal himself to his former Padawan, nor to alert the Jedi Order of the existence of another Sith. Besides, there may yet be other uses for Vader.

For now, he needs to return to Coruscant.

__

Once safely in the grip of hyperspace, and with nothing to entertain him until his arrival on Coruscant, Vader turns his attention to the spoils of the day. It had been impulse to snag the small device on his way out of the temple, but Vader can’t help but think it was the right decision. The Dark whispers fervent agreement in his ears.

The holocron he stole from Jinn and Kenobi is rather unremarkable, in the grand scheme of things. He’s seen a dozen more like it tucked away in Sidious’ vaults, relics he was always allowed to see and never have. There’s something liberating about touching one now, turning it over in his hands and feeling it warm against his skin. It’s smooth to the touch, if bit grimy from sitting in a vault for nearly a thousand years. It’s a pleasant weight in his palm—the undeniable proof that he is finally beyond Sidious’ control.

Reaching out with the Force, the holocron responds eagerly to his prodding, rejoicing in serving its purpose after so long. Pieces slide cleanly apart and, with a soft humming, the device’s glowing heart casts its secrets on the walls of the dark cockpit in a deep, bloody red.

Vader has no idea what any of it says.

The sharp, jagged letters are an alphabet completely foreign to him, and Vader marks this latest failing down on the ever-growing list of things Sidious never bothered to teach him. It’s much longer than the list of things Sidious did teach him, which is nothing at all. For all he’d claimed to be the man’s disciple, the old snake hadn’t taught him anything of import. He’d hoarded the secrets of the Dark Side, keeping Vader under his thumb with promises of knowledge and power that would never be delivered.

 _Obi-Wan never kept secrets from you_ , the part of him that had never ceased to be Anakin Skywalker whispers bitterly.

It’s right, of course. It had taken Vader years under Sidious’ control to realize it, even longer to admit it to himself, but it is right. Kenobi, for all his shortcomings, had rarely denied his Padawan anything when it came to the Force.

As a gifted user, Anakin had quickly outmatched his agemates in skill even with his late introduction to its power. Manipulating the Force around him came easily, and where many of his other teachers had faltered in the face of his power, Obi-Wan had endured. He’d always encouraged Anakin to work for better control and precision and didn’t shy away from teaching him more advanced techniques even though it was often met by disapproval from the other Masters. By the time Anakin had reached his early teens, there was very little else the man could teach him, and Vader can recall a number of times he’d asked for assistance on something he could have figured out on his own just to see the way his Master’s eyes would light up at the opportunity to help.

After taking on Ahsoka, he began to understand the way Obi-Wan had felt—not just as a Padawan indulging his Master, but as a teacher who wanted to see their student achieve everything they are capable of.

By the time Luke had surrendered himself on Endor, Vader had come to regret the hatred he once felt for his old Master—hatred that spurred him into killing a man who had only ever sought what was best for him.

Waking on Coruscant, hearing the roar of the air traffic and feeling the brush of wind against sensitive skin had nearly been enough to bring him to tears. The moment had been ruined almost immediately, of course, by trying to remember how to kriffing _breathe_ , but he would take those first terrifying seconds of forcing his lungs to work independently again any day if it meant being free to lay against the cool duracrete and bask in the way the Force pulsed with so much _Light_.

The holocron slides closed with a flick of his wrist, the cockpit dark and quiet once more. Vader, or perhaps he should start calling himself Anakin again, tucks the holocron into a pocket on his belt and leans back into the pilot’s chair, allowing his eyes to slip closed as he considers his plans. He hadn’t intended to reveal himself to Kenobi and Jinn so soon, but that can’t be helped, now. It doesn’t change anything, other than maybe being a bit more careful about how much time he spends around the Jedi temple when he’s on-world. He’ll have to give Kenobi and Jinn a wide berth on missions, too, which might make things a bit more difficult. No matter.

This second chance—he’s not going to waste it. He’ll keep Jinn and Kenobi safe. He’ll keep them _all_ safe. He’ll stand in the Darkness and play guardian of the Light. He won’t allow Sidious to take everything from him again.

He’ll be the man Obi-Wan, Padme, and Luke always believed he could be.

__

“Let me get this straight,” Windu sighs, his brows creased in that way Obi-Wan knows means he’s a lot more furious than he’s letting on. The bald Master runs one hand down his face before fixing his sharp gaze on the two Jedi before him. “The Council sent you on a mission to retrieve a holocron from a temple that’s been empty for nearly one thousand years, and you’ve managed to return without Padawan Kenobi’s lightsaber, the holocron you were sent for, _or_ the holocron the Council gave you to assist in your mission?”

Master and Padawan stand at the center of the Council of Twelve, the Masters all seated in their customary chairs. Obi-Wan can feel the weight of their gaze, heavy and suspicious, and would like nothing more than step up to where he usually stands at his Master’s side. He won’t, though, because Qui-Gon stands motionless, hands folded neatly in the sleeves of his cloak. He gave their report in short, polite sentences without any meandering anecdotes or unnecessary details. He is the spitting image of what a Jedi should be.

It’s strikingly out of character.

Qui-Gon has been this way since they got back to the ship. The Master has barely spoken a full sentence to his Padawan, beyond the necessary. That wouldn’t be so bad, Obi-Wan’s gotten the silent treatment for misbehavior before, if not for the fact that, most of the time, Qui-Gon won’t even _look_ at him. When he does, it’s with wariness and distrust. Like he expects Obi-Wan to just drop everything and go Dark Side at any moment.

It’s not an unfounded belief, Obi-Wan will admit. Qui-Gon has lost a student to the Dark before, and even Obi-Wan doesn’t know how his encounter and unwitting partnership with Lord Vader will affect him in the long run. He’s always leaned toward the emotional. Even so, he wishes his Master would have a little more faith in him. He doesn’t _feel_ any different. The Light still sings in his ear, and those emotions he’s always struggled with are no more than the usual knot in the pit of his stomach. There was no connection with Vader—no bond, like what ties him to Qui-Gon, had bloomed to life when they’d worked together to retrieve the holocron—which is something he’d imagine would happen if Vader had really taken Obi-Wan as his Apprentice.

Unless the Sith don’t have a Master-Apprentice bond? Obi-Wan doesn’t know. Access to advanced knowledge on the ways of the Sith is limited only to the Masters, but maybe Master Nu would tell him if he asked. The old librarian has a soft spot for him.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon tells the Masters. “That is correct. There were… unforeseen complications with our mission.”

After an expectant pause that goes on too long, Windu asks, “Do you care to elaborate on that, Master Jinn?”

The tensing in Qui-Gon’s shoulders, and Obi-Wan hadn’t even known they _could_ tense any more than they were before, tells every being in the room that no, he really doesn’t care to elaborate on that. Obi-Wan, though, is sick of beating around the bush. He’s sick of Qui-Gon’s cold shoulder, and will happily throw himself at the mercy of the Council if only to get this meeting over with. Maybe if the Council deems him free of Dark influence, his Master will be able to look at him again.

“There was a man,” Obi-Wan spits out hurriedly, before Qui-Gon can say whatever it is he’s just opened his mouth to say. “He saved me from one of the temple’s traps, which is how I lost my lightsaber. He claimed to be exploring the temple, and offered to show me another way to its heart after my original path was blocked. When we arrived at the heart of the temple, however, he revealed himself to be… a Sith Lord.”

Obi-Wan expects a certain amount of suspicion from the Council. They are surprised, yes, as they should be. What he doesn’t expect is for one of the Masters, he doesn’t catch which one, to outright snort at his assertion. They’re smirking at him like he’s an initiate jumping at shadows, fabricating tales of monsters under the bed. He can predict what Windu is about to say before the Master even speaks.

“Padawan Kenobi, the Sith Order was vanquished over a thousand years ago. Are you honestly telling this Council that a line somehow managed to survive undetected all these years, and that you _just happened_ to run into one?”

Obi-Wan is blessedly spared from answering that question when Qui-Gon steps forward.

“Masters,” Jinn says. “As this Council well knows, I have encountered users of the Dark Side before. I know how they feel in the Force, and the power they possess. This—”

“Darth Vader,” Obi-Wan supplies when Qui-Gon glances at him.

“—this Darth Vader possessed power that surpassed anything I have experienced before. I will stand by my Padawan’s assertion that this man was, however unlikely as it may seem, a Lord of Sith.”

The Council doesn’t look particularly convinced, but Master Windu returns the group’s attention back to the original topic.

“So this _Lord Vader_ just told you he was Sith?” The Master asks with no small amount of disbelief.

“No. After we arrived in the hall, Ani—Vader helped me retrieve the holocron that Master Jinn and I were sent for. When we had it, he congratulated me. Called me by name, and told me that Master Jinn would be proud of me for completing our objective. But I hadn’t… I hadn’t told him my name. I certainly hadn’t told him about Master Jinn. He just knew.”

This revelation seems to alarm the Council more than the possibility that the man is a Sith Lord.

“That was when he revealed himself, and when Master Jinn arrived. We tried to subdue him, but he was too powerful. He knocked out Master Jinn, and use the Force to prevent me from moving. Then, he took Master Jinn’s lightsaber,” Obi-Wan reaches into the pockets of his belt and fishes out the singed pieces of the Malachor holocron, “and destroyed the holocron we’d just retrieved. He said that the knowledge inside it was too dangerous for anyone, Sith or Jedi, to have. When he left, he took the holocron from the Vaults with him.”

The members are silent when Obi-Wan draws his report to a close, each of them trying to process the Padawan’s tale. Yoda dismisses them with his usual saying of _meditate on this, the Council will_. Obi-Wan follows his Master to the door, but before turns back around before he steps from the chamber.

“Masters?”

Their eyes are drawn back to him.

“You don’t think I’ll fall, do you? Because of the time I spent with Vader?”

Windu gives him a long, appraising look before answering. “A Jedi does not fall to the Dark Side by accident, Padawan. You must call upon and accept the power that it offers. As long as you have faith in the Light, it can not control you.”

Obi-Wan feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He can’t see Qui-Gon’s reaction to Mace’s reassurances, but the Padawan hopes that it was enough to begin to repair the rift between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vader's "be the good guy" shtick is going really well so far. Obviously. He only roughed Kenobi & Jinn up a little bit, which is fine because he was the one beating the up. It was for their own good, you understand.
> 
> Ben's Sith title, Darth Adelfos, is a bastardization of the Greek word for 'brother' which, while not as catchy as some other titles I've seen floating around, I found appropriate for our dear Kenobi.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan has a bad time, Vader plots, and Ben stalks his former student. Everything is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that is mostly exposition. Oops.

The Council grounds Kenobi and Jinn for two weeks for what happened on Malachor: no missions, extra duties, and confinement to the temple.

Usually Obi-Wan would be going stir-crazy within a few days of inactivity, but this time he finds himself appreciating the downtime. Qui-Gon is assigned to tutor initiates in saberform during their suspension, and spends most of the day hours in the training dojos. When he’s out, Obi-Wan often finds himself in the library, assisting Master Nu in whatever work needs doing and catching up on his studies. He’s fallen behind in astronavigation again. It’s that or help the Creche Masters with their young charges, and Obi-Wan is self-aware enough to admit that he has little patience for the antics of younglings.

After the chaos of their last mission, the peace and predictability of the library is like a soothing balm against his raw nerves. Unlike his Master, Obi-Wan could spend a lifetime between these shelves, lost in the wonder of the written word. There’s just so much to learn, so much to know. So much history and culture—the how’s and why’s of a whole galaxy. Obi-Wan would learn it all, if he could.

In the evenings, he and his Master retire to their quarters. Qui-Gon seems to be at least working on overcoming his fear of another Padawan’s fall and is making an effort to apologize for his lack of trust in his student. The tensions between them have not smoothed entirely, but Obi-Wan’s Master is no longer avoiding him, and they are speaking again. They talk into the late hours about what happened in their days, the Council’s decision, and meditate together on the things to come. The future has been elusive of late, even with Obi-Wan’s gift of precognition. Even so, he enjoys the quiet time spends his Master, their knees brushing as they kneel on the floor, the only noise the sounds of their own breathing, adrift in the majesty of the Force.

When he is alone, though, when he’s lying in bed at night and there is nothing to distract him, his mind unfailingly returns to the events of Malachor and Anakin Skywalker, the Sith who calls himself Darth Vader. It would be a lie to say that the Council’s inaction on the matter of Anakin’s very existence upsets him. They have, thus far, written Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s declarations off as the overactive imaginations of Jedi in a place they’ve been told to fear. To them, Vader is little threat. A rogue Darksider; hardly the first, and hardly the last.

Obi-Wan, though, worries. To say nothing on the matter of Vader _knowing_ him—them—the man’s presence on Malachor brought with it a number of unanswered questions. The Sith are meant to be extinct, but clearly at least one managed to survive the last great war. And if one lived, who’s to say there aren’t more? Who’s to say the Sith Order isn’t thriving under their very nose, growing more powerful while the Council claims blissful ignorance?

They don’t even know where Darth Vader stands in the Sith hierarchy; is he Master or Apprentice? Had he been a Jedi, a man of his age would be either a very senior Padawan or a very young Knight. They have no reliable records on how soon Sith Apprentices leave the metaphorical nest, spreading their wings by murdering the very Master that taught them everything they’ve come to know. For his age, Anakin had seemed remarkably in control of his own power, effortlessly masking his presence from both Master and Padawan and overpowering both when push came to shove. Is this simply the power of the Dark Side, or is Vader truly strong enough to have defeated some nameless, faceless Master?

It begins keeping him up at night, not knowing. The threat hangs over his head like a blade, and it wears at the gentle peace he’d found in the temple’s halls even only days before. By the end of the first week, he’s getting edgy with exhaustion. Obi-Wan snaps at a new Padawan who spills some sticky, sugary drink all over the floor when the sign on the door _clearly_ states that there are to be no food or drinks in the library, and Master Nu hauls him into her office, demanding to know what’s gotten into him.

He’s not supposed to tell anyone what happened on Malachor. For all their prattling that everything is fine, that there’s nothing wrong, the Council has strictly forbid both he and Qui-Gon from talking about what they saw. It wouldn’t do to start a panic, the Council had said, even though there’s supposedly nothing to panic about. Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from breaking—from telling her everything. About Malachor and Vader and the Council. About his tensions with Qui-Gon and his Master’s lack of faith. Sharp sobs rip from his throat and Master Nu tries to calm him, but he can clearly read her own distress at his news in her jerky movements and fumbled words. He regrets dragging her into this mess, but once he has finally settled enough to think clearly, he feels much better having gotten everything off his chest. Master Nu sends him back to his quarters, telling him that he needs to talk to Qui-Gon about his anxieties.

“Oh Padawan,” Qui-Gon sighs, wrapping strong arms around the boy’s shaking shoulders when Obi-Wan tells him about his fears and his sleepless nights, “I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t talk to me about this. You can’t control everything, Obi-Wan, nor can you hope to predict every outcome. You can not allow yourself to dwell on these anxieties. What will be, will be, and we must trust in the will of the Force. Whatever happens, I will be there to guide you.”

Obi-Wan, not knowing what to say nor trusting himself to speak, simply tucks his face into his Master’s shoulder and basks in the comfort.

__

The Council grounds Kenobi and Jinn for two weeks following what happened on Malachor: no missions, extra duties, and confinement to the temple.

By the end of the first week, Anakin is certain he’s going to climb out of his skin if something doesn’t happen soon.

Anakin Skywalker survived two wars, losing all four limbs, and nearly burning to death in a literal river of lava; of all the things that could possibly kill him, boredom should not even be a candidate.

And yet.

Inactivity had never been a problem in his past life. After Qui-Gon’s death, Obi-Wan had aspired to spend as much time away from the temple and the memories that haunted it as possible. Anakin distinctly remembers his old Master sleeping on the couch for almost a year into Anakin’s tutelage because the prospect of sleeping in Qui-Gon’s old bed had upset him. They were assigned to as many off-world missions as Obi-Wan could get and rarely saw the temple for longer than it took to give their reports and prepare for the next assignment. After that came the Clone Wars, and then the rise of the Empire. There had always been something to keep him busy: diplomatic squabbles, Separatist plots, and chasing his Rebel son from one end of the galaxy to the other.

As it turns out, there is very little to do when you’re trying to keep a low profile. Anakin’s been renting a dingy hotel room in the lower levels with stolen credits since his awakening here in the past. It’s small, dirty, and the holo doesn’t work. He’s going stir-crazy in its confines, but there’s nowhere else for him to go until Kenobi and Jinn are sent out on another mission. He can’t risk being off-world if Sidious decides to make a premature move. He can’t risk not being there to protect them. So, the hotel room it is.

Venturing into the upper levels would be suicide, and even Coruscant’s shady underbelly can’t safely harbor the Sith right now. The Jedi have contacts even there, Anakin had often made use of them during the Clone Wars, and every pair of bought eyes is going to be on the lookout for a man matching his description for some time yet. He can’t even go get a drink because he can’t hold the concentration required to mask his presence when he’s wasted and revealing himself to Sidious so early in the game would be disastrous.

In the recent hours, he’s taken to scowling at his stolen holocron where it sits upon a desk with only three remaining legs. He shouldn’t have taken it. It was impulsive and reckless and now that he’s done so, Jinn and Kenobi are stuck in the temple for two whole weeks and Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, is going to go down in history as the first man to die of boredom.

It’s not like he even gained anything from it. He can’t read its contents. At the most, he has acquired a very old, very rare decorative paperweight.

It’s currently holding down a thick stack of flimsi—pages upon pages bearing Anakin’s untidy scrawl. These are records of a past that was but never will be; these are his memories. Anything could think of, down to the smallest detail. A complete record of the life of Anakin Skywalker. Some of it, like the day he was freed and the day he married Padme, is crystal-clear, while the Clone War and the rise of the Empire seemed to blur together in a hail of blaster fire and death.

Scattered about the rest of the room are records of his thoughts and discarded plans. He’d thought writing down everything he remembered would help him in devising a way to bring down Sidious, but instead it has only brought him grief. To have it all there, where he can see it without the fog of rage or jealousy, makes him realize just how stupid he’d been in his youth. If he’d looked, really looked instead of allowing himself to be seduced by Sidious’ praise and sweet words, he would have seen the old snake’s plan coming miles before it could do any real damage.

Obi-Wan had seen it. A natural distrust of politicians combined with a keen sense for danger had made Vader’s old Master wary of the aged chancellor. He never shared Anakin’s delight at summons, and had often spoken against how quick the young Knight was to jump at the chancellor’s every whim. The young Skywalker had written it off as jealousy that he was better liked than his Master by such an influential figure in the Republic. He knows better, now.

Knowing better now does not help him in planning his next move. He’d been a well-respected general during the Clone Wars and a competent Admiral during the war against Mothma’s Rebellion, but tactical strategy had never really been his gift. He’s too reckless, too impulsive, too quick to charge head-first into combat heedless of the consequences. It was easier to be careful when he had men he was responsible for, and he had mellowed a bit with age, but he’s still a Skywalker.

Kenobi was always the one who did the planning, between them.

Vader snarls at nothing in the dark of his hotel room. Why do his thoughts keep returning to Kenobi? It serves him no purpose to dwell on thoughts of the man. He has not allowed himself to think too closely about Padme, or Luke, or the boy’s twin sister that he would never know, so why Kenobi?

 _Patience, Vader_ , the Dark whispers, but Vader has never been good at patience.

With a sigh, Anakin throws himself down on the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress of his bed and resigns himself to another night without a plan. For now, all he can do is wait.

__

Ben does not plan to be on Coruscant for more than a day—long enough to ascertain where Vader has been staying since the boy awoke in the past. Ben has been aware of his presence on the planet since the Force dropped the young Sith back in time, but has yet to manage to follow him all the way back to his hideout. Of course, he only has himself to blame for this, having been the one who taught Vader counter-surveillance techniques when the man was still his student. Still, that the younger Sith slips so easily through the crowded streets and vanishes so completely around bends despite his impressive height and gaudy, dark robes lights a spark of pride in Ben’s gut that he hasn’t felt in decades.

His former Padawan has secured a bolt-hole in the lower levels, well away from prying eyes. Ben only intends to stay for a moment, but ends up spending the better part of the day in the abandoned building across a narrow alley, watching. Observing as Vader sits at the room’s desk, shifting through stacks of flimsi and occasionally scribbling notes in the margins of whatever it is he’s working on. It seems time has, in fact, mellowed some of the boy’s restless energy, as Vader doesn’t move from that spot until well into the evening. Ben notes with some distaste that the younger Sith seems to be using the priceless holocron as a paperweight, though he can’t say he’s entirely surprised.

Vader eventually shoves away from the desk and throws himself petulantly onto the bed. It’s an action familiar to Ben, and he’s helpless against affection for the boy he raised that wells up all at once. Anakin had never been blessed with patience, and clearly whatever the boy is working on is going poorly. This is usually where Ben would step in and offer a guiding hand, but alas, now is not the time. Instead, he watches as the young Sith drifts off, chest slowly rising and falling with the cadence of sleep.

The holocron remains in its place on the desk. It would be so easy to cross the empty alleyway, scale the building, and sneak in through the window, unnoticed. He could probably steal the holocron without Vader being aware, but he won’t. Not while he’s still unarmed and Vader is only a hairsbreath away. He may have trusted himself to subdue the boy on Malachor, when he had the element of surprise and with Jinn and Kenobi as an additional distraction, but Ben isn’t stupid enough to engage a potential enemy on his own turf. A better opportunity may present itself later, so Ben slips away and returns to his own lodgings for the night.

He comes back the next day, and the next, and the one after that. He really does have other things to do, but he’s curious as to what Vader is up to. From what he’s seen, the younger Sith hasn’t attempted to venture anywhere near the upper levels. Without any access to the Senate building, he can’t be in contact with Sidious. Vader isn’t stupid enough to rely on traceable com links, and he can’t be communicating through Sidious via a bond. Ben knows this because Vader had never bonded to his Sith Master. His own bond with the boy had seen to that, stubbornly refusing to be severed or written over despite everything Anakin put him through. Even now he can feel it, a low hum in the back of mind, muted from disuse but not totally gone. Not even time itself could break their ties, it seems.

But if Vader is not working with Sidious, than what is he doing? What is he planning? Why go to Malachor? Why reveal himself to Jinn and Kenobi?

These questions are what keep him hovering in Vader’s orbit, like a moon circling its planet. If he could just get in there, if he could just _see_ what Vader’s been doing…

The opportunity finally presents itself when Vader leaves the room, presumably to go in search of food as Ben hasn’t seen him eat all day. He takes the holocron with him, to Ben’s dismay, but leaves the room completely unguarded as he stalks down the alleyway, pulling his hood over his face and vanishing into the crowds of the main street.

Ben slips into the hotel room on light feet, wary of any potential nosy neighbors. He hasn’t seen anyone else coming or going in his days of observation, but one can never be too careful.

The room itself is small, but then Ben had seen that much through the window. He doesn’t waste time rummaging through drawers or the small bag that sits on the nightstand—that isn’t what he’s here for, and he isn’t sure how much time he has before Vader makes his return. Making his way to the desk, Ben rustles through the piles of flimsi that cover its surface, trying to ascertain just what it is that his former pupil is working on.

The paper consist of hastily scribbled dates, sloppy illustations, snippets of writing that read like tales from a story book. It’s only when he catches sight of his own name, of a note that recounts his, Anakin’s, and Dooku’s capture at the hands of Hondo and his band of pirates, does Obi-Wan realize what this is.

Ben had briefly considered recording his own memories when he’d first awoken, but had eventually decided against it. There were too many risks involved if someone were to get their hands on it, and things wouldn’t be playing out the same way, anyways. Sure the premise would remain the same, but with Ben (and now Vader) meddling in the affairs of the past, there is no way _everything_ will.

Along with the records are several pages of notes on just what Vader has been up to since his awakening in the past (mostly just stalking Jinn and Kenobi) and, more importantly, his plan for the future. Granted, it’s not much of a plan, but then Vader had never been one for tactical planning. It’s a single scrap of paper, taped to the wall, which reads:

_Step 1: Protect Kenobi and Jinn_

_Step 2: ???_

_Step 3: Kill Sidious_

Again that helpless affection washes over him, and the Dark chitters lightly in his ears, as though amused by the antics of its favorite child. Anakin had never been one to beat around the bush—a trait he had not lost in his fall, it seems. Ben tugs the scrap off the wall, considering the boy’s messy scrawl with a small smile before neatly creasing the note and tucking it into the pocket of his cloak. Vader is unlikely to miss it, what with the mess all over the rest of the desk. He’ll likely assume it fell down, or blew out an open window.

It seems he has quite a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The action will pick back up next time, I promise.  
> Until then!  
> Thanks for stopping by!


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padawan Kenobi's days continue to not go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tardiness of this update! I spent most of this weekend traveling around because I had to run errands that required visiting the next state over. And the next time zone over. Yay, driving!

Ben would prefer a synthetic crystal. Better for channeling the Dark Side, or so they say. Having never actually used a synthetic crystal before, he wouldn’t know personally. He has seen how efficient other Sith have been with one, however, so he supposes that’s a point in their favor. Ben would prefer a synthetic crystal, but sometimes you just have to work with what you’ve got.

In his case, what he’s got is a bag full of scavenged lightsaber parts, access codes to the Illum Temple (they likely haven’t changed since Yoda was a youngling), and the path through security that Anakin has inadvertently cleared for him.

Besides, if Darth Vader’s siege on the Jedi Temple in their past proved anything, it was that having a natural crystal will not be detrimental to his newfound powers.

“Pardon me,” Ben murmurs, stepping over the unconscious forms of the two Temple Guardians meant to be keeping intruders out of sacred Jedi space. They’re doing a marvelous job.

In the past, Ben had often scoffed at Dooku’s claims that the Jedi had become arrogant in their reign over the other Force-users of the galaxy. Now he’s starting to think he owes his old grandmaster an apology or three.

Not that there was anything that could really stand in the way of Anakin Skywalker on a mission. Even if the poor Temple Guards had been prepared for the sudden resurgence of the Sith, they would not have been a match for Vader—not when they stood between him and his goal, which in this case seems to be making sure no harm came to the young Obi-Wan as the Padawan searched the caverns for a crystal to replace the one he lost on Malachor. The younger Sith is still in need of a crystal for his own lightsaber, not to mention the fact that he is undoubtedly quite unhappy about Obi-Wan being left unattended in the maze-like caverns, with Qui-Gon having remained behind on their ship. Ben can sense the man’s distraction and frustration through the remnants of their old training bond, and surmises that his old Master must be filling out reports for the Council.

Their bond has reformed into an ugly, patchwork thing as a result of Ben’s proximity to Anakin and, by extension, Qui-Gon. Not all the man’s feelings bleed through, and even then they’re muddled and fuzzy with interference from Padawan Kenobi’s own bond. Ben’s bond with Vader, however, is much cleaner; sharp and crisp, like it’s always been. Not that Anakin seems to have noticed. The boy has likely written off his recent clarity of mind and sense of purpose off as a result of his arrival in the past and not the return of the mental crutch he’s been supporting himself with since he was nine and all alone in the world. 

Now is not the time to dwell on those bonds, however. There’s only so long Vader can keep the guards unconscious, with the Light that natural kyber crystals give off interfering with even his considerable power. Eventually one of them will wake and alert the Council that there’s been a breach, and Ben would prefer to be long gone when that happens. He has no desire to fight his way out of this place when the Jedi inevitably descend upon it like flies upon a carcass.

Despite the disdain for Jedi principles that has arisen since his fall, Ben would still feel guilty about injuring those whom he still considers to be his old friends. They aren’t inherently bad people—simply the misguided products of a failed institution, as he had been in his youth. They will learn in time just how far astray they’ve been led, even if Ben has to tear the whole damned temple apart stone by stone and rebuild it from the ground up.

A sharp tug in the Force pulls Ben from his musing, drawing his attention to a small cluster of crystals just a ways down his current path. One of them is calling to him, and the Sith picks up his previously sedate pace until he reaches the cluster. The crystal his eyes are drawn to, standing out among a nest of blues and greens and golds, is not what he expects.

It’s white to start, though that’s hardly surprising. His new Dark Side ties wouldn’t allow the traditional blue ‘saber he had wielded as a Jedi. With as firmly in the Dark as he’s rooted himself, even the royal purple of Mace’s crystal wouldn’t be able to handle the power Ben now wields. A white crystal, the color of the grey Force-user, is likely the only capable conduit of his power until Ben can get his hands on an artificial crystal.

No, what’s surprising is the shape small stone. It’s more shard than full crystal—fractured at the tip like someone had already come along and snapped off a piece, leaving the base clinging stubbornly to the stone below it. It doesn’t cause a fuss for Ben, breaking cleanly away from the rock on which it perched.

There’s no feeling quite like watching a new lightsaber come together. Even after so many times going through this process, he’d rather not think about exactly how many, Ben still delights in the weight of a new weapon in his palm. It’s like a missing piece of himself has settled back into place, bringing with it a sense of control that he lacks without the weapon’s presence in his hand or at his waist. When he thumbs the weapon on, the metal cool in his hand, the white blade casts an eerie glow against the walls of the cavern. The crystals that dot them shine like a thousand tiny stars.

__

The chill of the frozen caves of Illum is familiar to Padawan Kenobi. As he trudges back to where he left his bag, Kenobi pulls his cloak tighter around himself and watches as the blue crystal serving as the heart of his new weapon is slowly encased by the lightsaber components he brought with him. He’s waked these paths several times now, more so than any of the other Padawans his age. It’s frowned upon by the Council and has made him the butt of many jokes within the temple, but he can’t say he minds. There’s a peacefulness that he can’t find anywhere else down in these caves; there is only he and the Force down here. No disapproving Council, no suspicious Masters, no strange Sith to ruin his—

“Hello, Obi-Wan.”

The pieces of his incomplete lightsaber drop in his surprise, clattering against the smooth stone of the cave floor. Obi-Wan barely spares a grimace for them, wheeling around to face the source of the sudden intrusion on his privacy. That voice—he _knows_ that voice.

Anakin Skywalker leans casually against a pillar nearby, grinning like Obi-Wan is a pet that’s just performed the most amusing trick.

Vader looks exactly the same as Obi-Wan remembers, which shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. He’d always been told that the Dark Side corrupts those who wield it, and apparently somewhere along the way he’d begun thinking of that as a physical corruption as well as the mental. But no, the Sith hasn’t changed in the least since their last encounter. Even his robes are almost identical, blacks and deep browns, if only a little thicker to fend off the Illum chill. The only significant difference seems to be the sleek, cylindrical form of a lightsaber that hangs at Vader’s hip, and that definitely wasn’t there before. Obi-Wan is suddenly very aware that his own weapon is scattered in pieces on the floor behind him. If he’d been at a disadvantage on Malachor, that was nothing compared to the danger he faces now that the Sith is actually _armed_.

“Vader,” Obi-Wan snarls, hoping he doesn’t look nearly as intimidated as he feels.

How had Vader even gotten into the Temple anyway? Only Master and Guards have the access codes to the Temple. Even if Vader had somehow gotten them, the Guardians stationed on Illum wouldn’t have allowed such a powerful Darksider to pass without a fight. Oh Force, the guards! If Vader had managed to get down in the caves, what had he done with the guards? Were they laying on the floor somewhere bleeding out, or were they already dead?

Obi-Wan tries to keep his composure, tries to force down the terror and rage that fight for dominance in his gut, but he can feel himself slipping as his breath comes faster and his heart pounds in his ears. Now that Vader is armed, what’s to stop him from cutting down Obi-Wan here and now? What’s to stop him from marching up to the surface and killing Qui-Gon? What’s to stop him from marching on the temple, the temple that believes him to be the creation of Obi-Wan’s mind, and slaughtering the Jedi in their beds? What if—

Something cold is pressed into his palm, and Obi-Wan is suddenly yanked from his spiraling thoughts. He looks down to watch Vader’s larger hands curl the Padawan’s fingers around a lightsaber—Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. A lightsaber that is unique to him, as all lightsabers are to their wielders; a lightsaber that Vader has apparently put back together and handed to him while Obi-Wan was caught up in his own mind. Anakin Skywalker is arming the enemy.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Obi-Wan,” Skywalker murmurs soothingly.

Obi-Wan doesn’t give him warning before he lashes out, the Sith only barely managing to jump away, to bring his own blade up and block the Padawan’s strike, in time.

Vader’s lightsaber is white, Obi-Wan notes absently as they dance across the floor, blades clashing in violent assault. It’s not the traditional color of the Sith, but then Vader had yet to act according to tradition. He’d saved Obi-Wan’s life, then spared Master Jinn even after the Jedi challenged him. Even now he doesn’t seem to be actually trying to hurt the Padawan, playing the defensive and trying to wear the younger man out instead of attacking. Obi-Wan is honest enough with himself to admit that if Vader were to go on the offensive, he likely wouldn’t stand a chance.

Obi-Wan’s weapon is sent careening through the air, landing somewhere out of sight with a thump its own doesn’t hear now that Vader’s lightsaber is at his throat. The white blade is mere inches from the thin skin of his neck, and the Padawan can feel the residual heat from the plasma. He doesn’t dare to swallow, lest the movement cause him to catch on the Sith’s weapon.

“I told you already, Obi-Wan, I’m not here to hurt you. Not you, or your Master, or any of the Jedi back at your precious temple.”

The blade is extinguished, and Obi-Wan feels like he can finally breathe.

“What do you want?” The Padawan asks, helpless against how incredibly small he sounds.

Vader grimaces, a barely-there twitch of lips as though offended by how afraid Obi-Wan is of him, and hangs his lightsaber back on his hip.

“I have a gift for you.”

The Padawan’s attention snaps to the man’s hands, where he’s opening a pocket on his utility belt and removing—

The holocron. The very same holocron he’d stolen from Obi-Wan on Malachor; the Holocron that had started this whole mess. It’s sitting neatly in the palm of Vader’s flesh hand, extended toward the young Jedi. There’s an expectant smile on his face, proud in the way that a cat who brings home prey is proud. Obi-Wan stares at the gift suspiciously.

“You’re… giving this to me?”

Vader’s grin falters. He sounds suddenly unsure. “…Yes?”

“You just stole it,” Obi-Wan points out, “two weeks ago.”

“A mistake,” Vader huffs. “It’s not like I could even do anything with it.”

“You can’t do anything with a holocron filled with ancient Sith knowledge?”

“I mean, I could,” Vader sputters, a soft flush rising to his cheeks. He’s suddenly not looking at Obi-Wan. “I could, if I could read the ancient Sith language. But I can’t, so you might as well have it back.”

Obi-Wan gapes as though uncomprehending. “You can’t read your own language?”

Vader scowls, and is opening his mouth to give what is like a sharp retort about his lack of knowledge when a third, unfamiliar voice cuts through their conversation.

“The boy can’t read it,” the voice says, and both Obi-Wan and Vader’s eyes snap to its source, “but I can.”

There’s a man standing not too far away, and neither has any idea how long he’s been there. They can’t see his face, the hood of his dark cloak casting shadows over his features, but Obi-Wan doesn’t need to see him to know that the man in dangerous. The Dark Side rolls off him in waves, similar and yet different from what oozes from Vader. Obi-Wan doesn’t doubt for a single moment that this man is another Sith. The Padawan can feel his metaphorical hackles rising as the man steps closer, palm extended toward Skywalker.

“Give it here, Anakin.”

The familiar snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting fills the room, and suddenly Vader is between Obi-Wan and the newcomer, his weapon ignited. Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to look for his own weapon, which flies into his palm when he calls for it. Stepping up to Vader’s side, he thumbs on his own ‘saber and takes a defensive position. The new Sith has yet to move.

“Who are you?” Vader snarls. “And how do you know my name?”

“You may call me Adelfos,” the newcomer sighs, hand dropping, as though disappointed by Vader’s reaction. “I’m not here to fight you. Or Padawan Kenobi. Just give me the holocron, and I’ll be on my way.”

Obi-Wan is too caught up in the fact that this is the second Sith to know his name to notice when Vader drops the holocron to the ground and launches himself at the new Sith, _Adelfos_ , with a declaration of, “If you know me, then you know I won’t give up without a fight!”

Adelfos’ blade is white as well, and that same small voice in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind can’t help but wonder if red lightsabers had gone out of style somewhere in the last thousand years.

Attempts at rendering aid to Vader are met with mixed results. Adelfos is clearly a skilled swordsman, relying heavily on soresu to dodge in and out of Vader’s powerful shien assault. Sometimes Obi-Wan will duck in and manage to send their opponent stumbling back into Vader’s optimal range, but most of the time he just ends up under the younger Sith’s feet.

A particularly brutal blow from the hilt of Adelfos’ lightsaber sends Obi-Wan reeling, blood pouring from what is likely a broken nose. The pain sends him to his knees. He hears Vader snarl at the sight of crimson staining Obi-Wan’s fingers and robes as he tries to stop the bleeding, and the Sith lunges at his opponent once again.

Obi-Wan can predict what’s going to happen even before the first blow lands. He’d made the same mistake in his earlier fight with Vader—allowing his emotions to get the better of him and charging in blindly. Vader’s weapon is knocked from his hands with the very same move he used on Obi-Wan earlier, the lightsaber sent skittering across the floor until it comes to a halt on the other side of the cave. Suddenly unarmed, Vader attempts to summon the power of the Force to knock his opponent back and allow him time to retrieve his weapon.

What Obi-Wan could not have predicted is what followed: the way the Force suddenly rushed out as fast as it had rushed in, like someone had thrown a wall up to cut off Vader’s access to his power. It is a trick Obi-Wan recognizes all the same, taught to Crèche Masters and those Knights with young Padawans in order to prevent catastrophe should a youngling’s power get out of control. His mind is too addled from his injury to consider why a Sith would know it.

Vader wobbles like someone has yanked a rug out from under him, face contorting and confusion and something that might be fear. Obi-Wan only glimpses that expression, however, because in the next heartbeat Vader is flying across the cavern, landing in a miserable heap on the stone floor.

“You’re making this so much more difficult than it has to be,” Adelfos mutters, an echo of Vader’s own sentiment on Malachor.

When Vader had landed, he’d done so very close to the holocron he’d dropped when this confrontation began. The young Sith attempts to drag himself across the floor in order to reach it, the fingers of his mechanical hand only just curling around the pyramidal device when Adelfos closes on him.

Vader’s durasteel wrist is pinned to the stone by one of Adelfos’ boots, preventing the younger Sith from moving. His back is to Obi-Wan like this, but the Padawan can see Vader’s face through the man’s legs. Whatever Vader sees when he looks up into the man’s cowl, the shock hits him like a speeder. Blood drains from the Sith’s face and he’s trembling, mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form words but doesn’t quite know what to say.

“ _Let_ _go_ , Anakin,” Adelfos growls, and the fingers of Vader’s durasteel hand uncurl from around the holocron.

“Good boy,” the elder Sith says, bending down to pluck the device from Vader’s palm. Then he’s gone, sweeping off into the tunnels with a dramatic twirl of his cloak.

There are binders in his utility belt, Obi-Wan realizes. They feel heavy, suddenly, more so than he knows they are. There are binders in his utility belt and nothing of this day has gone to plan and Anakin is _right there_.

Obi-Wan pushes himself unsteadily to his feet.

He expects more of a fight, but something about Adelfos has clearly shaken the Sith, and he’s docile under Obi-Wan’s hand when he wrestles Vader into a sitting position and snaps the binders around his wrists. He just sits there, limp, his eyes a thousand miles away, staring at something he isn’t really seeing.

“Anakin Skywalker,” Obi-Wan says, trying to sound authoritative despite the fact that they both just got their asses handed to them by a Sith even more powerful than Vader, despite the fact that he’s still bleeding, despite the fact his blood is now smeared over the cuffs and their clothes and their skin. “By the authority vested in me by the Jedi High Council, you are under arrest for crimes against the Republic.”

__

The nightmares have become more and more frequent as the days drag on. Qui-Gon has managed to hide them from Obi-Wan so far, but he won’t be able to maintain the peaceful facade forever. Waking up in the night, soaked with sweat and choking down screams, is quickly eating away at him.

Qui-Gon had assumed that Obi-Wan would suffer the most from the consequences of their encounter with the strange Sith on Malachor. His Padawan had, however inadvertently, spent a considerable amount of time with Vader. The worries that have plagued the boy since then however, are easily remedied—his sleepless nights set to rights with a few gentle reassurances. Obi-Wan’s dreams aren’t filled with blaster fire and bombs; adrenaline doesn’t course through his veins, preparing to defend against some nameless, faceless enemy; the screams of the defenseless don’t ring in his ears, the metallic bite of blood doesn’t linger on his tongue.

He can never remember just what the nightmares were about, but the residual terror doesn’t abate until the early hours of dawn.

He should tell the Council, he knows, and has spent the better part of their trip to Illum with his personal datapad in attempt to find a way to share his concerns without sounding like a madman. So far, he’s had little luck. Nightmares happen, the Council will say, as they always said when Obi-Wan was still young and suffering from portentous dreams. The Force will show you the path.

Qui-Gon doesn’t know what path the Force is trying to show him with these horrific visions, but he wishes it would stop.

A sharp spike of fear in his Force bond with Obi-Wan drags Qui-Gon from his brooding. It is not the soft undercurrent of anxiety that Obi-Wan usually suffers from, but real, true _terror_. Something has gone wrong down in the caverns, and Qui-Gon is stumbling from the ship, lightsaber in hand, before he even considers the action.

His own fear only grows when he steps over the forms of unconscious Temple Guardians in the entrance hall, just beginning to stir with consciousness. He should really stop and sound the alarm, but the guards will wake soon. He will leave that task up to them. It is their duty, after all.

Clearly someone has gotten into the temple. Someone powerful. His mind immediately flies to Vader, the monster that has haunted Obi-Wan since their meeting on Malachor. But surely he wouldn’t hurt the Padawan, right? For all the man’s faults, being a Sith Lord the chief among them, he hadn’t so much as laid hand on Obi-Wan during their encounter. Even after the Padawan injured him. Still, one can never hope to predict the Sith.

The Master encounters a man at the top of the winding staircase leading down into the caves. They both go rigid with surprise at the sight of one another, clearly not having expected to run into another person. Qui-Gon can’t see the man’s face, but gets the faint impression of golden eyes and a neatly-trimmed beard beneath the man’s hood before he’s pushing past the Master and taking off toward the entrance hall. Qui-Gon does not give chance, instead thundering down the stairs with renewed vigor. His main priority is reaching his Padawan, especially now that he’s seen a credible threat against the boy.

Following Obi-Wan’s signature in the Force, Qui-Gon weaves his way through the maze-like frozen caverns. The boy’s terror has mostly subsided now, replaced instead by the dull ache of pain.

The Master rounds a final corner and finds himself in a large, open cave area. There, seated on the floor, is Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Padawan’s face and robes are smeared with blood, and his nose is at the wrong angle, but otherwise he appears unharmed. He’s still breathing, which Qui-Gon is inordinately thrilled to see. The Padawan raises his head at the sound of his Master’s footsteps approaching, and gives the man a grin that is equal parts weary and wry.

“Oh Master,” Obi-Wan sighs, “you won’t believe the story I have to tell.”

Qui-Gon doesn’t doubt it for an instant, because there, cuffed and lying on the floor at the Padawan’s side, is Darth Vader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like every time I write for Ben, he just gets a little bit crazier.  
> Also, Ben's force trick against Anakin is just shit I made up, but it seemed practical because honestly they have to have some way to keep a whole bunch of super-powered toddlers from wrecking everything as they grow and learn control.  
> Fun fact, this chapter was actually replotted several times during the course of planning this AU. There were several drafts of it that took place in all manner of settings and with all manner of cast, from another Sith Temple to the Caverns of Illum to the Jedi Temple itself. There was even a draft where Dooku was around for some reason, and Ben made a terrible family reunion joke. And a draft where Qui-Gon died. A lot of things had to change as I wrote them, including Qui-Gon's nightmares. I had originally planned for little Obi-Wan to suffer from them following his first encounter with Adelfos, there is actually a nightmare sequence in my drafts that was the first thing I ever wrote for this AU, but I ended up going with Qui-Gon. I liked the idea of him struggling with Ben's fall even before he knows who he is, which in this case comes in the form of sharing Ben's shitty nightmares.
> 
> I always liked the descriptions of Anakin & Obi-Wan as "two halves of the same warrior", and I thought it would be cool if it meant more literally as well as figuartively, like if their lightsabers were built off halves of the same core crystal.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's very late here so I will be back to add notes here in the morning. Night, kids.

 Anakin is accustomed to feeling small, feeling powerless. As a slave he owned nothing, not even himself. He lived with the constant threat of the bomb under his skin, with the knowledge that any day he could be bartered away from his mother and no one would even look twice. As a padawan he’d always been the odd man out, brought to the temple too old and always having to work harder, be better, than those who doubted. As a Knight he’d failed in his duties: failed to protect his own padawan, failed to uphold the Code, failed to resist the call to the Dark. Even as a Sith, as the man who brought the Jedi Order to its knees, he’d never felt truly powerful. He’d failed to save Padme, never known his children, toiled under Sidious’ thumb for decades.

Since returning to the past, he’d gained a little bit of that power he’d never felt before. This Anakin was his own man; he could be whoever he wanted to be. This Anakin could fulfil his destiny the way he was meant to, not the way that black-suited shell of himself had. There were a universe at his fingertips, a destiny laid out for the choosing, and for just a little while he felt _strong_.

But there, below the surface of Ilum, with the chill nipping at his skin through the weight of his robes and his back pressed to the frosted stone, that delicate illusion had shattered. Looking up into that once-familiar face, into burnished gold eyes that don’t belong, he felt _powerless_ again. His world, his balance, fallen away with ring of that Coruscanti accent in his ears. A part of him wants to stomp his feet like a petulant child, to throw a tantrum over the loss of things he once thought he knew, but a larger part just wants to know _why_. For the first time since those blessed breaths that started him on this journey through history, Anakin feels small.

He casts into the Force for his answers, but it won’t tell him what he wants to hear. It just croons, soft and gentle, whispering promises of explanation and comfort and safety if only he’s patient. But Anakin Skywalker has never been patient. His very world has tilted on its axis, what he considered his place in it shaken to its foundation, with the knowledge that somewhere out there a man he no longer knows is wearing the face of someone he had once called Master.

It’s almost a relief when Padawan Kenobi (and he has to make that distinction now, _Padawan_ Kenobi, because there’s a Lord Kenobi, Darth Adelfos) restrains him, when he sedates him, the sharp sting of the hypo freeing him from the paralyzing cacophony in his own mind. It’s easy to surrender to unconsciousness.

The first time he comes around, he is not conscious long enough to ascertain where he is. His senses are dominated by the hands on his skin, by restraints that hold him to the bed, by the harsh, stinging scent of antiseptic. He’s reminded of a too vivid memory of waking in another time, in a prison of black armor. His thoughts run together, muddled and slow, until he’s no longer sure what is past and what is present. He thrashes against the bindings, mind a haze of fear, screaming and lashing out indiscriminately with both body and Force until he feels the bite of a hypo at his neck once again.

The second time he wakes, it is to the sound of a heart monitor. It’s a noise he’s familiar with, after countless hours spent in one medical ward or another. He can’t feel the pain of poorly crafted artificial limbs, he can’t hear the sick hiss of assisted breath, but it doesn’t stop him from being terrified of opening his eyes anyways.

The sterile, white walls that bloom before his eyes when he manages to pry them open could belong to any of a thousand places. There is relief, though, in this. In the Empire, everything had been grey. And then where he is doesn’t matter anymore, because Anakin turns his head and there’s _him_. _Adelfos_.

The man who had once been Obi-Wan Kenobi lounges in a chair at Anakin’s bedside, head propped on one hand as he studies the young Sith like a most fascinating puzzle. He looks completely at ease with wherever they are, Anakin reflexively relaxing to match him. Like this, in an undoubtedly stolen Jedi uniform, one ankle crossed over his knee, he looks like he could have leapt straight out of Anakin’s memories. If not for the burnished gold of his eyes, seemingly glowing in the half-light of a night cycle, Anakin might have thought himself dreaming. He doesn’t bother to ask how the man got in; they are both experienced in infiltration. Instead he gropes blindly for the bond that must be there, hidden somewhere in the back of his mind. Adelfos seems content to meet him halfway, and the brush of the man’s mind against his own, familiar if now seeped in darkness, is almost agonizing in its bliss.

Anakin’s next shaky inhale morphs into a ragged cough, his wrists tugging uselessly at their bindings as he shakes with the force. Adelfos rises from his chair, collecting a small cup of water from the bedside table and settling himself on the edge of the cot. He doesn’t bother to undo the restraints pinning Anakin to the bed, instead holding the cup to chapped lips and tipping its contents carefully into Anakin’s mouth. For a time, there is only noise of Anakin’s swallowing and Adelfos’ softly murmured praises, barely audible over the rhythmic pulsing of the heartbeat monitor.

It’s a familiar ritual from their days at war, one or the other waking in the med bay to find their partner waiting, and Anakin knows he should be more frightened than he is of this not-quite stranger. He can’t bring himself to be, though. His mind is still fighting the haze of sedation and, Sith or not, this is still _his_ Obi-Wan. When the cup is drained, Adelfos sets it back on the bedside table. The man himself doesn’t appear to have any intention of moving back to his original seat.

“Where are we?” Anakin croaks, the effort of speaking making him distantly aware of pain in his ribs.

“The Hall of Healing in the Jedi Temple,” Adelfos says, smoothing the blankets that had become rumpled with Anakin’s coughing. “The healers believe me to be a Knight sent by the Council to relieve your last guard. They will be in session until the early hours, so there is time yet before anyone notices that something is amiss.”

Anakin chuckles weakly, trying not to disturb what he’s beginning to suspect are broken ribs. “That explains the Jedi getup. Would have thought the eyes would be a dead giveaway, though.”

There’s a twitch in Adelfos’ lips that Anakin knows to be a suppressed smile. “I suppose they might have been, had the Council not denied so fervently that the Sith have returned. As it stands, most of the temple believes Padawan Kenobi made the whole thing up to excuse failing so spectacularly on Malachor.”

“What does that make me then?”

“The Healers have been told that you’re a rogue Dark Side user—hence the restraints. Apparently you caused quite a fuss the first time you woke.”

“Oh.”

Anakin can recall blurry memories of terror and confusion, and feels a little sorry for the poor healers that had to deal with his panic. Adelfos leaving his restraints on makes a little more sense now, though. If a healer were to come in and find him unbound, there would likely be a scene, and anyone with a smidgeon of midichlorians could easily get out of such low-tech restraints should the situation call for it. Anakin and Obi-Wan, who have spent more than their fair share of time in cuffs behind enemy lines, could escape them even faster than most.

“I was wondering,” Adelfos says, leaning in to brace a hand beside Anakin’s head on the pillow, effectively boxing him in. It’s a little intimidating, he must admit. “If I could have a word? There are things I believe we need to talk about, before we must make ourselves scarce.”

Anakin gives him what he hopes is a teasing smile. It’s been a while since he’s engaged in this kind of banter, and he’s hopelessly out of practice. Not to mention that his higher reasoning is starting to kick back in, and he’s suddenly hyper aware of how vulnerable he is like this.  “Of course. Not like I’m going anywhere.” He gives a sharp tug to his bonds to emphasize the point.

This time, Adelfos isn’t able to smother his grin. “No,” he murmurs, “I suppose you aren’t.”

Yeah, Anakin is definitely beginning to feel a bit uneasy about this whole Sith Lord Kenobi business.

The sound of approaching footsteps is almost a blessing, drawing Adelfos’ unsettling gaze away from Anakin and back toward the door. The older Sith is tense, prepared to leap off the bed should there be any indication that whoever is coming closer intends to enter the room. They don’t though, and pass by without incident—likely a healer or their apprentice making rounds. Anakin is almost grateful; Adelfos looks like he would have been quite miffed if this little discussion had been interrupted.

“As I was saying,” he hums, turning his attention back to Anakin, “there is something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“And what is that?”

“You plan to kill Sidious.”

“Who told you that?”

“You did,” Adelfos smirks, reaching into his robes with his free hand and pulling a folded piece of paper from with its confines. The older Sith unfolds it, and Anakin recognizes his master plan.

“That’s—you were in my hotel room!” Anakin gapes.

“Not much of a plan is it? What did you intend to do, rush the Senate and kill the man in front of his colleagues? Strike him down in the street? Do you think you’ll even get within a hundred yards of him before he senses you and has you arrested? Do you enjoy the prospect of spending your days in a Force-suppressing cell until it eventually drives you insane?”

Anakin snarls, straining against his bonds and realizing belatedly that Adelfos is holding them closed with the Force. If he can’t break the man’s concentration, he’s not going anywhere unless the older Sith wants him to. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” comes Adelfos’ fervent response, something Anakin is intimately familiar with shining in his eyes. He’d looked at Padme like that, once upon a time. “I have my own plans for Sidious, of course, but it would be so much easier for the both of us if we worked together. Just imagine it, Anakin. You and I, fighting side by side once again; I could teach you so much about the Dark Side. Sidious wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Teach _me_ about the Dark Side?” Anakin scoffs disbelievingly. “If I recall, I fell long before you did.”

“And what did Sidious teach you in all those years, hm? You can’t even read the Sith language! I’ve been studying the Dark Side for years—ever since Master Jinn was killed. With my knowledge and your strength, no one would be able to stop us!”

“It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”

Adelfos frowns, shifting away from Anakin until he’s no longer in the younger man’s face. “Of course you have a choice. I learned long ago that I can’t _make_ you do anything. This endeavor would only end in flames if I tried to force you into working with me against your will.”

“And if I said no?”

“If you said no, I would leave. Continue on with my plan and try to stay out of your way, unless you happen to blunder into mine. I’m hoping I won’t have to, though.”

“And if I say yes?” Anakin asks, hating how small his voice sounds.

“If you say yes?” Adelfos smirks, leaning into Anakin’s space once again and carding a hand through his hair. Anakin can feel the Force roiling with the man’s emotions—so strong, now that he’s not trying to suppress them. “If you say yes, if you pledge yourself to me once again, I’ll heal you and we’ll leave this place together. I’ll teach you everything I know, and together we’ll be strong enough to tear Sidious and his Apprentice to pieces. After that, who knows? I’d imagine we’d figure it out as we go.”

Anakin stares into the man’s eyes, gold on gold, and turns his options over in his head. Adelfos’ promise of power is alluring, but Sidious had made those same promises once. Sidious had promised him the galaxy, but all he’d received was pain and loss. Would it really be worth it to swear himself to a new master who could very well do the same?

 _Ah_ , the Dark whispers in his ear, _but this is not Sidious. This is Obi-Wan_.

It’s not wrong. This offer doesn’t come from the Sith bent on dominating the Galaxy; this isn’t the man who hid his true nature and twisted Anakin’s emotions until it became convenient to reveal himself. This is Obi-Wan, who never denied him anything—who raised him and trained him and held him at night when nightmares chased him from sleep. When Anakin reaches into the Force, he can sense no deception. No ulterior motives. Adelfos’ mind is an open book, his shields lowered to let Anakin in, enthusiasm and desire to have Anakin at his side once more on full display. Anakin opens his mouth, but Adelfos stops him with a raised hand.

“Before you give your answer,” the other Sith says, suddenly solemn, “I need you to understand that, should you pledge yourself to me, I will not tolerate another betrayal. If you so much as think about returning to Sidious’ side, I will not hesitate to kill you, as I should have done on Mustafar all those years ago.”

Anakin considers him a moment longer before responding. “If I try to go back to Sidious, I would want you to kill me. He turned me into a monster—someone I could barely recognize as myself. I don’t want to be that man again.”

“You don’t have to be,” Adelfos promises. “Come with me, and you won’t have to be.”

“Yes,” Anakin breathes, and he can Adelfos’ surprise in the Force, as though the man hadn’t actually expected him to agree. “Yes. Master, _please._ Let me be your student again.”

The restraints around Anakin’s wrists come loose with a lazy tug from Adelfos’ Force signature. His hands come up to rest on the older man’s shoulders when Adelfos leans down, a slightly dazed smile on his face, to press their foreheads together. It’s a familiar gesture, intimate and safe. Anakin can feel his lingering nerves settle with every puff of Adelfos’ breath against his skin.

“Of course,” the man murmurs. “Oh, my dear Apprentice, of course.”

__

Qui-Gon dreams of a boy.

He’s skinny and small, blue-eyed and blonde haired. Tan Jedi robes, several sizes too large for his lithe form, drag on the ground as he pads through the spacious apartment, making him appear almost comically small. Wide eyes take in everything, curious as only a child can be. He investigates the kitchen, apparently surprised by the sheer amount of food available; he prods at the mattresses in the sleeping quarters, thin by a Coruscant native’s standards but luxurious to his; he spends a good long while marveling at the plants perched on the balcony, soaking in the afternoon sunlight. In fact, he seems to be noticing everything but the cracked refresher door, which he dutifully ignores every time he passes it.

Or at least, he tries. He tries until a sharp sob rips through the quiet of the apartment, emanating from the refresher, and then the boy can’t stay away. The approach is hesitant and awkward, that of a child who’s been told not to do something but knows they’re going to do it anyway. The boy pushes the door open slowly, peering into the room for a moment before pushing it the rest of the way open and stepping into the refresher.

On the floor is a man, leaning back against the wall, dressed in Jedi robes to match the boy’s. His knees are curled up to his chest, head between them as his shoulders shake with stifled sobs. The boy clears his throat and the man straightens up, apparently startled by the newcomer, allowing Qui-Gon his first good look at this man’s face.

He’s young, mid-twenties at most, with blue-grey eyes that have seen too much in his short years. Heavy shadows lay beneath them, as though he hasn’t been sleeping well. Tear tracks stain his flushed cheeks, and his short-cropped, ginger hair stands up in disarray. There is something familiar about him, but Qui-Gon can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Padawan,” the man breathes, hastily scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his robe, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I just came in,” the Padawan murmurs, stepping further into the room,

“Oh,” the Master says. “Was…Was there something you needed?”

“No. I just heard you in here and thought—”

The Padawan doesn’t seem to know what he thought, and the two fall silent. They have reached an impasse, Qui-Gon realizes, neither sure how to approach the subject of what drew the Padawan into the refresher in the first place. Master and Padawan stare at each other, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional sniffle by the elder.

The Padawan makes the first move, shuffling closer and gingerly crawling into the Master’s lap. When he realizes that he won’t be met with reprimand, he settles himself more comfortably. One of the Master’s hands comes up to stabilize him, the other staying at his side, clenched around something Qui-Gon can’t see.

“Your braid is gone,” the Padawan notes, reaching out to brush the place behind his Master’s right ear. The man grimaces, and the Padawan seems to understand. “That’s what made you sad, isn’t it?”

“It’s… complicated,” the Master sighs, uncurling his clenched fist to reveal a severed Padawan braid, decorated with a number of the colorful beads meant to mark achievements in a Padawan’s journey to Knighthood.

There’s a pair of shears discarded on the floor, Qui-Gon realizes, a horrible feeling of unease settling over him. That… isn’t right. There are rituals involved in the cutting of a Padawan’s braid. Acknowledgement of the Council, celebration with friends—not this. The Padawan runs his fingers gently over the severed braid, staring at it with that same mix of curiosity and awe that he’s examined everything else in the apartment.

“What is it?” The Padawan asks. Another thing Qui-Gon doesn’t understand—a Jedi student that doesn’t know their traditions.

“It’s a Padawan braid. It distinguishes its wearer as a Jedi learner. It’s cut off when the Padawan passes their trials and enters Knighthood. Typically, the Master would cut off their Padawan’s braid and keep it, but…”

A quiet moment passes between the pair, and Qui-Gon is beginning to put the pieces together. Or at least, he suspects that he is. The Master’s own Master is dead. They must be—it’s the only thing that Qui-Gon can think of when he tries to list reasons he would not be around to cut his own Padawan’s braid. Still, surely a Council member or another Master the boy was close to would have stepped in…

“Will I have to wear one?”

“Yes, Padawan,” the Master chuckles weakly, “you will. And one day, when your Trials are complete and you’re ready to become a Knight, I will cut it.”

The Padawan hums in acknowledgement.

“How are your robes?” The Master asks.

His Padawan glances down at the baggy material, pooling over his short limbs and onto the floor. “Too big,” he decides.

It draws a real laugh from the Master. “Well I’d certainly hope so; they are mine, after all. I meant the thickness. We’ll have to get you some of your own, but I know Coruscant is quite a bit cooler than your native planet. Are the robe thick enough? Or should I have the tailor droids scrounge up something a little warmer?”

“Oh,” the Padawan’s face flushes with embarrassment. “No. They’re fine.”

“Good,” the Master murmurs, considering his young change for a moment before leaning down and resting his forehead against the boy’s. The Padawan leans eagerly into the contact. “Thank you, Anakin,” he sighs.

“Of course, Master.”

-

“Master? Master!”

Qui-Gon starts awake at the voice of his own Padawan, Obi-Wan roughly shaking him into consciousness.

“Master? Are you alright?” The Padawan asks, brow furrowed.

“I’m fine, Obi-Wan. Just a dream,” he sighs.

Glancing around the room, Qui-Gon finds himself still seated outside of the Council Chamber, having been sent from the room once his account of the events of Ilum had been given that Obi-Wan may make his own report. He had, after all, spent significantly less time with the Sith (plural, because there are two now, which shouldn’t be as surprising as it is) than his Padawan. While he’s not entirely surprised to have fallen asleep, the couches are comfortable and the nightmares have only grown more relentless over the passing days, he wishes it hadn’t happened where his Padawan could see.

Obi-Wan seems to understand his embarrassment, because he does dwell any longer on his Master’s breach of decorum. “The Council has just dismissed us. We’re to go down to the Halls of Healing and have Vader sedated for the night, then we are free to return to our quarters.”

“Shall we get moving, then? I suspect I’m not the only one ready for a decent night’s sleep, after the day’s events.”

“Of course, Master.”

They wind their way through the temple in silence, and Qui-Gon can’t help but dwell on his dream of the strange Master and Padawan pair. Unlike most of the nightmares he’s suffered from, this one was startlingly clear. There were no indistinct rushes of _soundsightsmell_ , but clear detail, as though he’d watched the events on a holo. He’d even gotten a name this time: Anakin. Just a first name, but it’s a start. He knows the boy was a Jedi Padawan at some point, so he should be in the computer system. It helps that he knows the boy’s hair and eye color as well. They will help to narrow down the search. Maybe if he gets to the bottom of these strange dreams, they would cease to bother him.

Whatever plans he has of seeking out the young Padawan are quickly forgotten when they reach the Halls, however. There’s a flurry of activity, healers and their apprentices and medical droids scurrying back and forth in distress. Qui-Gon grabs a young twi-lek apprentice as she passes, demanding to know what’s going on.

“It’s the Dark Side user, sir,” she squeaks. “He’s gone!”

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Qui-Gon snarls, feeling his Padawan tensing at his side.

“One of the Healers went to go change his bandages, and he was just gone! We don’t know how he got out or where he went or—”

“Show us.”

The apprentice leads them to Vader’s room, where a healer is frantically checking the nooks and crannies, as though expecting to find the Sith hiding behind the wilted potted plants or under the sink. The cot is neatly made, Vader’s ruined black robes, folded with the same precision, lay at its foot.

“What happened to the Knight that’s supposed to be guarding him?” Qui-Gon demands of another passerby—this time a human female.

“The Council sent a Knight to relieve the first one. We thought he was in the room with Vader. No one saw either of them leave!”

From the corner of his eye, he watches Obi-Wan’s face contort with suspicion. “I was with the Council all evening. Another Knight was never sent for.”

“Then who was he?” The healer demands. “Because he knew all the codes and—”

Qui-Gon stops hearing her babble when his eyes land on the bedside table. Obi-Wan follows his gaze, and sucks in a sharp breath. There, perched innocuously next to an empty water glass, lays a familiar artifact: the holocron.

At his side, Obi-Wan hisses out a single word. A name. “ _Adelfos_.”


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went ahead and bumped the rating preemptively because we all know we're going to get there eventually why lie to ourselves.

They don’t go by Anakin’s hotel room for his things. At first, he thinks it’s because they’re trying to find cover. While the Jedi hadn’t noticed Adelfos coming, it’s bound to be noticed pretty quickly now that both he and Anakin are gone. They’ll wait out the initial frantic search for their escaped prisoner in some hole in the ground, then swing by Anakin’s place and grab his gear once the dragnet lightens up. When the pair arrives at the spacious, upper-level apartment his Master has somehow managed to secure, however, Anakin realizes quickly that he won’t be seeing his hotel room again.

Mostly because his belongings are already there, neatly packed away in moving boxes and stacked atop the dining table.

Sometime between his return to Coruscant and springing Anakin, Adelfos had found the time to go and box up his Apprentice’s things. Not only that, but he’d apparently been confident enough that Anakin would go with him to have them moved before he’d even asked. He’d said he would leave if Anakin asked him to, but what would he have done with his stuff if he had?

An image of Adelfos scrambling to beat him back to the hotel, hurriedly putting everything back where he found it, springs to mind, and Anakin can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes him.

Everything is there, for the most part. His writings, his spare lightsaber parts, the bits and pieces of electronics he’d been fiddling with in his spare time. All present and accounted for, except for his clothes. In none of the boxes are the sets of clothes he’d managed to obtain one way or another over the duration of his stay, which is quite the inconvenience considering he’d very much like to get a hot shower and rid himself of the Jedi robes that Adelfos had supplied for their escape.

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Anakin starts at the contact, having not heard the other man approach. “I hope you don’t mind,” Adelfos says, “but I took the liberty of getting you new clothes. The ones you had were looking a bit…ragged.”

Ragged would probably be an understatement. While the winter gear Anakin had obtained for the journey to Ilum was nice, most of what he’d managed to get was secondhand, traded for droid repairs or outright stolen. Still, they were things he’d worked for and gotten himself. He would very much like to tell his Master that he actually does mind quite a bit, but something in Adelfos’ tone suggests that opening his mouth on the subject would probably a bad idea. Isn’t it a Master’s job to take care of their Apprentice, after all?

The Dark whispers fervent agreement in his ear, so he mumbles a soft, “Thank you, Adelfos,” instead of whatever biting comment might have otherwise slipped out.

“Just Master will do, Anakin. Or Ben, if you wish to use something other than my title.” The man gives a brief squeeze to his shoulder before stepping away. “Your room is just over there. There’s an attached ‘fresher, should you wish to shower and get out of those robes. I certainly know I do.”

Adelfos, or he supposes he should get used to calling the man Ben, wanders off toward a closed door across from the room he indicated to Anakin, which must be his own bedroom. Instead of jumping right into Ben’s suggestion, he starts hauling boxes into his room, tossing them into a corner and trying very hard not to look too closely at the obviously luxurious décor. He has no idea how Ben can afford a place like this when the man doesn’t even have any marketable skills beyond basic technical knowledge, his negotiation tactics, and combat ability. Anakin doesn’t think he’s earning his keep in the fighting rings on the lower levels. He makes a mental note to ask as he deposits the last box, and finally heads into the refresher.

It’s as large and obnoxiously ostentatious as the rest of the apartment, but there’s a water setting on the shower and that’s all Anakin cares about at the moment. His hotel only had sonic, and the first rush of hot water on his skin drags an outright moan from him. A shelf built into the wall is lined with soaps in a variety of scents, and Anakin goes through him while soaking under the spray. Most of them are too strong for his taste, but he eventually finds a suitable scent and washes himself off. There is very little in the galaxy better than the clean feeling that comes with a proper water shower. He stays in there significantly longer than is necessary, relishing in the feeling, and is drawn out only by a rap at the ‘fresher door.

“Anakin, there’s food out here. Get out before it goes cold,” Ben calls.

Anakin Skywalker is a grown man, a Sith Lord, and definitely does not pout as he turns the water off.

Towels are an easy find—Ben still keeps them under the sink—and he scrubs at his hair until it’s no longer dripping before wrapping it around his waist. The chrono on the bedside table informs him that there’s still a few hours until the sun comes up; it hadn’t been terribly late when they’d made their escape, but they’d chosen a circuitous route back to the apartment in a fit or paranoia. Ben had left a pair of sleep pants and a tee shirt folded on the bed, sparing Anakin from having to dig through the closet for now. He pulls them on without complain and pads back out into the living space.

Steaming takeout boxes cover the dining table, where Anakin’s belongings once sat. Ben is over by them, dressed in more formal attire than Anakin’s pajamas, doling out food and humming absently along with the soft music that plays from somewhere Anakin can’t see. Everything smells divine, but that could be because he hasn’t eaten in almost a day and this body had always been notorious for its appetite during the Wars. His Master seems to have remembered that, because there’s significantly more food on one plate than the other.

“How the hell did you get someone to deliver at this hour?”

Ben chuckles and passes Anakin his plate, which he greedily takes. “You should know better than anyone that enough credits will get you anything, Anakin.”

Collecting his own meal, Ben steers them over toward the large transparisteel panes that line one wall. There’s a small seating area there: a couch and a few chairs positioned around a low coffee table, looking out over the Coruscant skyline. Ben sprawls out toward one end of the couch, and Anakin takes a chair.

“Speaking of credits,” Anakin says around a mouthful of food, earning a disapproving scowl from his Master, “how did you manage to snag a place like this? This apartment has to cost, like, an astronomical amount, and we both know you probably aren’t working.”

Ben considers Anakin’s question while he finishes chewing, wearing that face that means he’s debating the best way to tell the story. “This apartment belonged to a weapons dealer that the Order did business with during the Clone Wars.”

Anakin chokes on his food. “I’m sorry?”

“Come now, my Apprentice, surely you don’t believe the Jedi Council to be as upstanding as they always sought to appear? Toward the end of the war, Republic funding had begun to grow dry, but our troops still needed weapons and armor. I often served as the go-between for those kinds of deals.”

“And this dealer just did business out of his home?”

“Of course not. The man was quite paranoid—always met in the lower levels, always vetted potential clients, never took the same route twice. You know the type. He only brought me here once, when we received word that his men had intercepted a shipment of kyber crystals. The Council didn’t know where he’d gotten them and didn’t want them falling into Separatist hands, so they sent me to negotiate. The price he was asking was astronomical,” Ben grimaces at the memory, “but in the end, he was willing to accept, ahem… alternative payment.”

Anakin grew up in Hutt Space. He knows _exactly_ what that means.

“What?” He snarls, feeling rage boiling up in his gut. “And the Council just _allowed_ that?”

“I never told them,” Ben admits, cheeks flushing in shame. “At the time, the mission was more important than any damage I received in the process.”

“And where is this dealer now?”

Anakin watches his Master’s eye harden, a sneer curling his lips. It’s not an expression Anakin saw often in their past life—reserved almost exclusively for Maul. Even Dooku hadn’t merited that level of hatred from his Master. By the end of the war, the old man’s antics were met with more exasperation than rage, like he couldn’t believe Dooku was still capable pulling this shit when the man was practically geriatric. “Nowhere anyone is going to find him,” the older Sith growls, low and dangerous.

The subject is dropped after that, both men returning to their meal. Anakin’s rather lost his appetite, but forces himself to choke down a couple mouthfuls of food when he catches Ben frowning at his plate, clearly displeased that Anakin hasn’t eaten more. The man’s propensity to micromanage is something Anakin definitely hadn’t missed.

Respective meals finished, Master and Apprentice remain quiet, listening to the music the carries though the room and watching the bustle of the city below. This high up, the light pollution is less and the view is beautiful, light from Coruscant’s three moons catching on great spires of glass and steel and setting them aglow. Anakin can’t seemed to stay focused on it for long though, his gaze drifting back to his Master without his consent. His eyes, specifically. It’s still strange, seeing the Sith gold where they had once been so blue.

“I didn’t think you were capable of it,” slips out without him meaning it to.

“Hm?” Ben asks, still looking out over the skyline. They can’t see the Senate building from here, but the spire of the Jedi Temple looms in the distance, towering over the surrounding buildings. There’s a faint glow at its peak; the Council must be in emergency session again.

 “Fall, I mean.”

“I always knew I was capable of it,” Ben sighs, flicking his eyes over to his Apprentice just in time to catch Anakin’s shocked expression. “I failed my Initiate Trials three times, you know. Almost didn’t make Padawan. Master Jinn was my last resort, and everyone warned him against me. They believed me too emotional.”

Anakin snorts in disbelief, and Ben’s lips curl into a wry smile.

“It’s true! Your old Master almost ended up in the Agricorps. I was quite the menace, both as an Initiate and as a Padawan. I fought with my peers, disobeyed my Master, fell in love several times… I was quite a bit like you, actually. So when Qui-Gon died, when you became my Padawan, I worked harder than I ever had to be good—the perfect Knight.” Ben sighs again, returning his gaze to the world outside. “You know how that turned out. I gave everything in the name of the Order, and to wake up here, in this time… it felt like the Force had thrown it all back in my face. Like what I’d done, what I’d sacrificed, hadn’t been good enough. Falling was easy, after that.”

The pair lapse into silence once more, Anakin considering his Master’s words. In all their years together, he’d never really asked about Ben’s history. The few times he had, the Master had evaded the question and changed the subject. Anakin had been too young at the time to really notice, and then the Clone Wars began and they no longer had time to dwell on the past. A part of him wishes he’d pressed harder—that he could have known the man behind the Master.

Anakin pushes himself out of his chair before he can overthink it, shuffling over to the couch and dropping down onto the cushions at Ben’s side. Ben stiffens, clearly unused to contact that he hasn’t initiated, and Anakin wonders if there was anyone in those twenty years they spent apart or if he, too, had borne them all alone.

“I never knew those things about you.”

“I never wanted you to. I thought that perhaps, if you saw what a Jedi was supposed to be, you wouldn’t make the same mistakes I did.” The Master lets out a self-depreciating chuckle. “Foolish, in hindsight.”

“Well, I’m glad you told me now. Better late than never, right?” Anakin elbows Ben teasingly, but doesn’t draw a reaction beyond a soft huff of breath and a swatted hand in his general direction. Another tactic, then.

Ben goes absolutely rigid when Anakin presses himself into the man’s side, but he doesn’t let that deter him. Instead he wriggles around until he’s comfortable, his weight braced against the man and his head resting on Ben’s shoulder. He makes to throw an arm around the man’s middle, but a hand closes around his wrist with enough pressure that, had it been his flesh arm instead of the artificial, he might have felt bones grinding together. Ben is, at least, willing to relinquish his grip when Anakin pulls the limb back toward him, getting the hint. When he reaches into the Force via their bond, there are walls around Ben’s mind. He isn’t entirely sure what’s gotten into the man, it’s not like they haven’t comforted each other before when Anakin had nightmares or when missions went awry, but he’s content to try and wait it out.

“I don’t think I ever said it before,” he murmurs, “but thank you. For everything.”

They sit in silence after that, Anakin turning over everything Ben told him as the man stares out into the night. He’d kill to know what his Master is thinking, but he knows from experience that he’s not getting behind the man’s shields unless Ben invites him in.

It feels like eons before the muscles under his cheek slowly begin to relax, even though he knows it can’t have been very long at all. The shields lower next, Ben’s presence brushing gently against his own, and then Ben releases a long breath and Anakin very suddenly finds himself in his Master’s lap. He’s is surprisingly tolerant of the manhandling, allowing Ben to adjust this limb or that until they’re both comfortable.

When he’d initiated this, Anakin hadn’t really intended to wind up chest to chest, straddling the man’s lap, but it’s been so long since he’s engaged in any kind of physical contact with anyone and Ben is so _warm_. There’s a firm arm around his waist, keeping him balanced, and the other hand is carding through his hair, Ben’s nails scratching gently against his scalp. Anakin nuzzles at the man’s throat, breathing in the scent of clean skin, and goes all but limp in his Master’s grip. The Force around him purrs contentedly, and Anakin is pretty sure that this is what it meant back on Ilum when it told him that patience would be rewarded.

He probably shouldn’t feel as exhausted as he does considering he just spent quite a while unconscious, but Anakin finds himself drifting off anyways. What little protest he manages to give is quickly ended by Ben’s soft hushing and a tightened grip, the hand that was in his hair sliding down to the nape of his neck and preventing any further wiggling.

“It’s alright,” the Master hums, “you’re alright.”

Anakin isn’t entirely sure about that, they have enemies out there hunting for them even now, but it’s not like he’s in any position to disagree.

He’s probably not meant to hear it, and it certainly doesn’t sound as many warning bells as it likely should when Ben whispers, “Everything is going to be ok. Nobody is going to take you from me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever actually stop and think about how old Dooku is? He was Qui-Gon's Master. Qui-Gon had time to raise two Padawans before he even got to Obi-Wan, and then Obi-Wan raised his own Padawan and that Padawan had a Padawan and Dooku is really fucking old you guys. Really old. I hope i'm as bitter and extra as him one day.
> 
> Ben continues to oscillate between a cool, sane dude and this creepy ass motherfucker and I wish he'd just pick one and stop being so uncooperative when i'm trying to write for him.  
> Next time: We're off to see the Senate! The wonderful Senators from afar!
> 
> I've also got some more tunes for you, if you're interested in listening to them. I've got one for [Ben Kenobi/Adelfos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHWJT7mo4I0), one for [ Anakin/Vader](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSqfbgvXqU0), and one for [both the boys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5axbaGBVto)


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter, personally, but it's necessary to get the ball rolling.  
> I don't actually know anything about Valorum, but I'm going to pretend he was a Decent Guy who happened to get stuck in a Shit Situation because his name has "valor" in it.

The life of a senator is rarely dull. Well, dull may not be the right word. The life of a senator is rarely _idle_. Between debates and dinners, speeches and strategy, there is rarely a moment spent without meaning. There are bills to prepare, receptions to plan, and reporters and political allies to sway. When he does find a moment to breathe however, Sheev Palpatine likes to spend it in the office of Chancellor Valorum.

Chancellor Valorum is probably, in Sidious’ opinion, the closest thing to an honest politician that the galaxy could ever spit out. He’s kind to his political rivals, transparent with the public, and probably wouldn’t know a bribe if it was typed out and submitted with the latest legislature. Even Sidious must admit a grudging respect for how long the spirited politician has managed to hold together the crumbling Republic and its corrupt Senate. Valorum was a shoe-in for the position of Chancellor, but his shining reputation has made it near impossible for Sidious to take the seat out from under him—a necessity if he is ever to claim the galaxy in the name of the Sith. Until Valorum makes a grievous enough error that Sidious can knock him from the throne without raising suspicions, he has to content himself with biding his time.

It’s infuriating.

Usually he can pacify himself with the expensive alcohol that the current Chancellor favors (the man’s one indulgence) and the knowledge that, one day, this office will be his and his carefully arranged pieces will finally come into play. Not today, though. Today he listens to Valorum’s friendly babbling with half an ear and watches in the Force as the Jedi swarm about Coruscant like a thousand ants, their natural Light pounding against his shields and stirring up the beginnings of a migraine.

For all the Jedi preach cooperation with the Senate, they actually make appearances quite infrequently. Unless there is an emergency summons or a particularly contested bill up for vote, they are typically quite content to confine themselves to their temple and well out of the way of Sidious’ Force senses. Today has been an anomaly. He passed two Knights on the way up to the Chancellor’s office, and when he crosses the room to stand before its large, panoramic window, he spots four more huddled in the courtyard below, locked in heated conversation.

“The Jedi seem to be out in full force today,” he comments, voice falsely nonchalant.

“Oh, yes,” Valorum hums, taking another sip of his drink. “I received a communication from their Masters this morning. They requested permission to assign a few of their Knights to guard the Senate until they locate some fugitive they lost track of last night. Slipped right out of their temple, believe it or not.”

Sidious can’t help the way his brows jump at that. The Jedi are peacekeepers, first and foremost. Typically, they are content to leave justice up to the courts when they can. Even when are forced to take prisoners, they are turned over to Republic authorities. The Jedi never drag their fugitives all the way back to their temple. “They must have committed quite a crime, to be locked in the temple.”

“Windu didn’t elaborate. Just mentioned that they’d managed to apprehend some rogue Dark Side user that’d had run-ins with one of their Master-Padawan pairs these last couple weeks.” Valorum shrugs. “Not that I know what any of that means, other than that there’s a criminal out there confident enough butt heads with a Jedi and wily enough to get out of their grip when he’s caught. They’re going to come in and brief the Senate, if they don’t find any leads here in the next few days.”

While the Chancellor’s ignorance as to the workings of the Force is not terribly surprising, especially of the long-forgotten Dark Side, the mention of another user’s apprehension is. It can’t have been Maul—his Apprentice had commed to check in just that morning and, as brash as the man has become in passing years, he would not lie to his Master about tangling with Jedi. He certainly wouldn’t have let them live.

“That doesn’t leave this office, Sheev,” Valorum instructs. “I don’t want anybody getting upset over potentially nothing.”

“Of course not,” Sidious responds, flashing his most trustworthy smile.

Satisfied, Valorum returns to his drink and Sidious resumes watching the Jedi in the courtyard.

While there are Dark Side users all over the galaxy—the Witches of Dathomir, Fallen Jedi, mercenaries and thieves—there has been no one that riled the Jedi as much as this new player has.

Someone’s kicked the anthill, and Sidious would very much like to know who.

__

“A dangerous decision, it is,” a voice calls, startling Mace Windu from his thoughts, “to send such a precariously balanced Jedi into such a dark place.”

The Korun Master raises his head, adjusting his gaze from the com device in his hand to the diminutive form of his former Master, standing in the door of the vacant Council Chamber. The little green alien patters into the room, gimer stick tapping its familiar rhythm on the tile floor, and settles on his own Council seat. Between them, a holo of Darth Vader flickers, capturing the Sith flashing a hesitant smile to someone just out of frame.

“I will accept whatever repercussions come of my actions, Master,” Windu sighs, turning the communicator over in his palm.

“And yet hesitate, you do, to summon them. This decision, why you have made it, explain.”

Windu lost track of the number of times he’s watched this footage hours ago. Vader and Adelfos, the latter never captured on camera but for a shoulder or flash of hand clipping through the edge of the frame, making their way out of the temple sedately and unmolested. They do not harm anyone on their way out, though it is well within their power to do so. Vader even stops once to exchange pleasantries with a small group of Initiates eager to show off their latest lightsaber forms to anyone who will hold still long enough to watch them.

The Sith kneels, correcting a Rodian girl’s grip on her training ‘saber and adjusts the stance of a human boy, surprisingly patient with the youths. They thank him, bow, and then scurry away as quick as they came. When asked, they will be unable to recall the face of the kind “Knight’s” companion. They are not weak minded—they would not be Jedi Initiates if they were—but they are children, and it is so easy to make children forget.

A forearm enters the frame, then, clapping the young Sith on the shoulder, and Vader looks back at his companion with that soft, hesitant smile. This is where Mace had paused the footage.

There is so much that Mace does not understand.

“The Sith have returned,” Windu begins, turning his com device over in his hand as he speaks, “there is no denying it now. They were here, in our temple, speaking with our younglings. We felt their power. The Jedi Order has more knowledge about the Sith than anyone else in the galaxy: books and holocron and artifacts dating back to the Great War. And yet, this man—these men—continue to defy everything that we claim to understand. Their identities, their motives, their plans—they’re hidden from us by the shroud of the Dark Side. Our search parties found no trace of their whereabouts once they left the temple. If we are ever to predict them, ever to apprehend them, we must know more about who they are.”

“And solve the mystery, sending a grey Jedi into the Dark places, will?”

“I see no other option, Master. These…interactions Kenobi and Jinn have had? They don’t appear to be random to me. They’re too thought out, too well executed, to be created in the heat of the moment. The altercation between Adelfos and Vader that led to Vader’s arrest, perhaps. It must have been, if Adelfos had to free his companion, but the rest? No. It’s too neat. They’ve singled out that pair, for some reason. By sending them out into the field, we have a chance to draw the Sith out. And if it works, they’ll need someone strong enough, someone _grey_ enough, to do what needs to be done.”

Yoda sighs, bat-like ears drooping with resignation, and Mace feels a vicious pang of guilt, like a knife twisted in his gut. In truth, he likes this plan no more than his Master does, but sometimes one must make sacrifices in the name of the greater good. He swore an oath to the Republic, and he intends to uphold it, even as he baits a trap with an ignorant Master and Padawan. Even now, as he sends his _brother_ out to potentially perform the unthinkable…

“I know you worry for him,” Windu murmurs, glancing up at his once-Master. “You were his teacher, as you were once mine. He is my line-brother, and I worry for him, too. He walks a delicate line, and one false step could send him tumbling into a place from which he cannot return… but he will not be alone out there. I would not send him if I didn’t think he was strong enough to overcome this. He is a good Jedi, and you a good Master. Should he waver, Jinn and Kenobi will be there to keep him on the path of the Light. They will not allow him to fall.” A pause. “We _need_ this. Right now, it’s our only chance at figuring out just what’s going on.”

“Agree with you, the Council does. Outvoted, I have been.”

The Master slides off his chair and makes his exit slowly from the room, pausing in the doorway to cast one last, ominous thought over his shoulder. “Right, I hope you are.” Then, Mace is alone again with his thoughts and Vader’s smiling face.

He stares at the holo of the Sith for a moment more before clicking on his communicator and bringing it up to his lips.

“Have Jinn, Kenobi, and Dooku report to the Council Chamber first thing tomorrow morning. They have a new assignment.”

__

Maul comes when he’s summoned; he always does. To refuse his Master’s call would be to invite retaliation, and he can’t have that. Not while there are secrets of the Dark still waiting to be unlocked. One day, when he is strong enough, he will knock the old man from his high horse. He will put his ‘saber through the man’s heart and watch the light fade from his eyes, and then Maul will answer to no one. That day is not today, however, so instead he creeps through the shadows and sneaks into Sidious’ apartment unseen.

His Master is perched behind a large, ornate desk, as he usually is during these unexpected summons. Its surface is littered with papers and holopads pertaining to whatever it is the Sith happens to be working on currently. Sidious does not look up as Maul strides across the room to kneel at its center, head bowed. It takes a great deal of effort to smother the rage that boils up in his gut at the action, but he is aware of how much enjoyment Sidious gets from watching Maul seethe. He will not give the snake the satisfaction of riling him.

“Master,” he rumbles when the man fails to acknowledge him, likely on purpose to wear on his nerves.

“Ah! My Apprentice,” Sidious croons in that deceptively friendly tone he usually uses in his public facade, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

It’s a lie and they both know it. It’s an invitation—a test, meant to provoke a rash attack at Sidious’ next summons. It is not bait that Maul will be taking. He’s not that stupid. “I will announce myself immediately, next time.” He says instead, and takes a particular amount of pleasure at Sidious’ disgruntled expression.

The façade of the grandfatherly politician falls away, then. “I have a new assignment for you, my Apprentice.”

A new assignment? He was already in the middle of one. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting? “And what of the alliance with the Trade Federation, my Master? I am nearing agreement with them. To back out now—”

“Those simpering cowards can wait,” Sidious snarls. “They will bow to the will of the Sith, one way or the other. Or do you question my judgement?”

Maul bite back the sarcastic response that hangs on his tongue, and keeps his head bowed. Sidious, apparently satisfied with his show of submission, continues on.

“The Jedi Order has reported the emergence of a new Dark Side user. I wish to know who he is, and what he is doing meddling in the affairs of the Jedi.”

“And where may I find this rogue dark-sider?”

“That, they do not know. His trail has gone cold after his escape from their custody. However, there may be a way to find him. The Jedi believe him to have taken interest in one of their Master-Padawan pairs, and that he may approach them again in the future. You are to follow Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn and learn what you can about this rogue Force user.”

 “If this Force user is following Kenobi and Jinn, would it not be wise to engage them? To draw this man out?”

“No,” Sidious snaps, “to reveal ourselves now would only hurt our cause. We must have patience. He will reveal himself to us, in time.”

“And when he does?”

A smirk. “Bring him to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back next time with our regular cast and crew. See you then!


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys head out, and Ben dwells on his first few weeks as a Sith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! An update. Because I had a terrible day and torturing these boys always cheers me up.

They head to Ben’s ship just before dawn, Master leading the way and Apprentice shuffling dutifully along behind him, nursing his second cup of caf as though it’s the elixir of life. Anakin had very quickly given up the early morning associated with a slave’s routine upon his arrival at the Temple, which his Master had both loved and loathed. On one hand, he’d never disturbed Ben’s sleep (a precious commodity following his dubious knighting) with some ridiculous morning routine like Qui-Gon had. On the other hand, getting Anakin up before noon for anything less than the fall of the Republic often required physically dragging the boy from bed and wrestling him into clean robes.

Glancing back over his shoulder as they climb the entry ramp, Ben can’t help but draw a comparison to the zombies they once encountered on Geonosis. Glassy eyes, uncoordinated swaying in each step, language capabilities diminished to basic grunts and groans. Anakin had even gone so far as to tangle his fingers in the back of Ben’s robes somewhere between the apartment and the port, allowing his Master to tug him along as to not worry about getting separated or watch where he’s going. Ben deposits his Apprentice in a passenger’s seat, for which he receives a lazy, grateful hum, and settles into the pilot’s chair to begin takeoff sequences.

The ship, named _Negotiator_ out of some lingering sentiment for the title, is nothing particularly noteworthy. She’s a Corellian freighter a few models older than Anakin’s _Twilight_ , stored at one of Coruscant’s spaceports under a false name. He pays the staff there handsomely for upkeep and anonymity, and she’s always ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Minimal modifications, but she’s still a far sight better than the scrap heap Anakin had before their reunion. His ship is now in Jedi custody, towed back to Coruscant when they brought Anakin in. Unlike the boy’s lightsaber, which he’d snuck into the vault and retrieved during his rescue mission (and who knew if anyone had even noticed it missing yet), there had been no way to take the ship without drawing too much attention to themselves. Good riddance, in Ben’s opinion. The Council probably wouldn’t be able to pay someone to take that monstrosity off their hands. _The Negotiator_ reliably gets Ben from point A to point B, and she’s only going to get better now that Anakin is around. Knowing his Apprentice, the younger Sith is likely to spend the next week in downtime tearing her apart and making improvements until she meets his standards.

Ben risks a glance at his companion while they navigate their way up out of atmo, pleased to find Anakin growing closer and closer to sentient as he nears the bottom of his cup. On the right hyperspace lanes, a trip to the Mid Rim doesn’t take nearly as long as some might expect, and they will need to be prepared for anything upon their arrival. They have minimal knowledge of the specifics of Jinn and Kenobi’s mission, the bug Ben planted in the temple’s computer system only transmitting destination and departure times in order to not draw attention, but they are familiar with this particular planet and can make an educated guess.

“Dathomir,” Anakin mutters, “why did it have to be Dathomir?”

Ben sighs, plugging in hyperspace coordinates. The _Negotiator_ jerks once as the hyperdrive activates, and then the lights of hyperspace are streaming by. There’s nothing to do now but wait. “You know why, Anakin. By now, I’d imagine the council is growing quite frustrated with our recent interferences. Without having you there to question, they’re seeking out other sources of information in hopes of understanding just what is going on.”

“And they really think that Mother Talzan is going to tell them anything?”

“She’s a more likely source than any. She did it for the Order during the hunt for Savage during the Clone Wars. While the Nightsisters may use Dathomir’s magic, which is rooted in the Dark Side, they do not agree with the principles that Sith like Sidious have come to embody. If any Dark Side user could look into the shadows and reveal their secrets to the Jedi, it would be Talzin and her Nightsisters.”

“If they hate Sith, who’s to say they won’t out us to Jinn and Kenobi? Or just kill us as soon as they realize we’re there?”

“Because we, my dear Apprentice, are a different breed than the Line of Bane,” Ben assures, pushing out of his seat and moving toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Anakin asks.

“I’d like to meditate before we reach our destination.”

Anakin snorts. “Of course you would.”

“Still have an aversion to meditation, I see.”

“What’s the point? A Sith’s power comes from emotion. Centering yourself would just be counterproductive.”

“Have you considered that your opinion is the reason you’ve only mastered the most rudimentary of Dark Side skills?”

Anakin looks as though Ben has just slapped him across the face, but they both know the accusation to be true. Most of what Anakin had relied upon during the time of the Empire, he’d discovered by instinct or trial and error. Without any formal tutelage, how could he ever truly know what power lays in wait?

For a heartbeat, he looks like he’s about to argue. He deflates under Ben’s stare, though, sighing and pushing himself out of his chair. “Fine. Show me the true power of the Dark Side, my Master,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

Ben does not dignify his attitude with a response, instead turning on his heel and leading the way to the cargo bay. They settle opposite of each other, kneeling on their cloaks against the durasteel floor, Anakin wearing a distinctly unimpressed look.

“In the cockpit, you pointed out that a Sith uses emotion to fuel their power. You are not wrong, Anakin,” Ben cedes, “but you’ve missed a fundamental point. As any Force user will tell you, emotion is dangerous no matter which side of the Force is being drawn upon. The Jedi seek to control emotion that it does not interfere with the will of the Force. Sith, however, do not allow themselves to cater to the Force’s whims. Instead, they harness the power behind their emotion to bend the Force to their own needs. If you’re not centered, not in control, those emotions can get the better of you—as your own did during our confrontation on Mustafar. They can blind you to your true purpose. The Dark Side is not gentle; it is not forgiving. If you are not strong enough to control it, it will devour you.”

Anakin grows more attentive as Ben speaks, and he finds himself quite pleased that the boy is actually listening to him.

“Meditation helps a user to ground themselves—to remember their path, their purpose, and not be led astray.”

The Apprentice nods, apparently finding some merit in what his Master is explaining, and then Anakin is sinking down into the Force. Ben watches for a moment through their bond as the young Sith shuffles through his thoughts, his emotions, in hopes of finding his own center. It has likely been some years since Anakin has meditated—he likely has quite a bit to sort through—so Ben allows himself to drift and finds himself considering his own struggle with finding his center in the frenzy of the Dark Side.

It had taken Ben time to learn mastery of the Dark Side. It raced through his veins like a wildfire, ravenous and untamed. It called for sweat and blood and flesh and dozen other things he knew and feared. It was so different from the Light, which had gently guided his actions. The Dark seized control and tried to bend him to its whim. There were some days where he could barely think through the haze of bloodlust and rage, and he wondered if this was how Anakin felt that day on Mustafar.

At first, Ben drowned himself in alcohol until it dragged him into the numb of unconsciousness. He spent nights in the undercity, drifting from bar to bar, spending swindled credits in hopes of dulling the siren’s song of chaos and destruction. It worked—for about a week. Then he got into a brawl with a guy who had a problem parting with credits lost, more or less fairly, on a bad hand. He’s probably not going to be walking anytime soon with what Ben did to him, and Ben wasn’t allowed in the bars anymore.

If not alcohol, then sex. Ben had always been aware that this body is aesthetically pleasing, it’s something he relied on during his time as the Negotiator, and it was easy to lure partners from the planet’s innumerable nightclubs. All it took was locked eyes through the flashing lights, a few murmured words over the pounding music, and they were tripping over themselves as they followed him out into cold alleys. His partners were all the same. Ben is honest enough to admit that he has a type, even as he loathed sinking to this level. Blonde hair, blue eyes, human—or close enough. He didn’t have a preference on gender, but he was always the dominant partner. Afterwards, he waved them off and returned to the ratty bolt-hole he’d taken up residence in, collapsing in bed and allowing the pleasant ache to quiet his mind and send him to sleep. This worked, too, for a little. And then the nightmares started.

Memories of blood and death and loss flashed behind Ben’s eyes, dragging him from sleep and leaving him sweaty and panting as his heart thundered in his ears. He didn’t sleep much, after that, and it began to wear on him. The frequent dalliances left him exhausted, but he didn’t dare rest in fear of what images his tortured mind may conjure up. With each new partner he beded, he grew more frustrated, more aware of just how many little imperfections each and every one of them bore. His skin too soft, smooth and unmarked; xyr hair too light, bleached almost white; her hips too wide in his grip. They weren’t what he wanted; what he wanted, he can’t have. And then they couldn’t even supply him with those few moments of peace he sought them out for in the first place. The Dark spat its contempt in his ear, disgusted that he would lay hands on these inferior creatures when they are so _unworthy_ of him.

“ _Master…_ ” Slipped through the lips of some university brat who was _tooyoungtoothintooshort_ and it was like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, leaving him frozen as the mounting pleasure was abruptly washed away.

“Don’t call me that,” Ben hissed through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the boy’s hip.

But the kid, caught up in his fantasy, unaware that this is a game that he shouldn’t be playing, just smirked over his shoulder and ground back against him, purring, “You don’t like it? What are you doing to do about it, Master?”

Ben shoved the boy away from him; it took no more than an errant thought to crush his throat, the blinding wave of anger enough that he didn’t even consider the action until it was already done. That brat has _no right_ to that title, his rage-hazy mind snarled. There is only one person who can call him that, and it certainly wasn’t that child.

It was only when he’s tucking himself back into his pants that he realized what he’d done. The boy writhed on the ground at his feet, blue eyes wide and wild with confusion and primal fear of death, blonde hair just a tad shorter than _his_ had been fanned out across the concrete as he gasped uselessly for breath. Ben stumbled backward, away, as horror at his own actions and the Dark’s amused chittering warred for space inside his mind. _He deserves it_ , a part of him thought, and this was the final straw. He’d had it with this anger, with this senseless violence, with this power he’d submitted to and couldn’t control. This was not what he agreed to when he allowed himself to Fall.

He scowled down at the boy’s weakly twitching form, unfortunate collateral damage of Ben’s struggle to find his place in this once-familiar time, and then he went. Turning on his heel, he left the alley and his victim behind. Someone will find him eventually, and while Ben felt bad for snuffing out the spark of a life that potentially had so much left to give, he couldn’t help but be a little grateful that it happened. Otherwise, he would have kept at his pitiful routine until he went truly mad. This clarity of mind, the first he’d had since his arrival, is exhilarating.

Ben needed somewhere to meditate. His own hotel room wouldn’t do—it wasn’t safe enough. Too many ways to get in, too many shady characters lurking about. If he was going to immerse himself in the Force, he needed somewhere secure. Somewhere he wouldn’t be disturbed. Somewhere he could just breathe.

It was pure luck that he happened to trod by the familiar, flashing neon sign. He’d been to this place before, on a number of occasions, to meet with a weapons dealer the Jedi did business with. Memories of those encounters bubbled up: of a loud voice and noxious breath; of currency clicking as credits are exchanged; of desperation and humiliation and weight pressed over his back; of _pain_. Pushing those thoughts to the side, he focused instead on the most pertinent detail, which happened to be the man’s apartment. He’d only been once, the circumstances of which he would rather not dwell on, but a Jedi is trained to always be aware of their surroundings. It was exactly what he needed—and he knew exactly how to get it.

Killing the man felt like freedom, and disposing of a body is easy when you know the right places to go. In no time he was kneeling before the apartment’s picturesque view, watching the sky traffic soar by as found his center and pulled at the Dark. Old warnings of how power will control you if let it echoed through his mind, and he refused to sit quietly and let it use him a moment longer. The Dark Side will yield to him, if it is the last thing he does…

Glancing over at his young Apprentice, Ben can’t help but think that it was worth it. All those weeks of suffering, of insecurity, of wresting with the Force itself until it submitted to him at last—every second was worth it, if his reward is having Anakin back at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben why you so angsty. Why.


	9. Nine

Obi-Wan scrolls through the data on his holopad with half an eye, reading but not really taking in the details of this particular mission. He’s exhausted—the Council seems intent on running him ragged. Only two days ago he’d engaged in combat with not one, but _two_ Lords of Sith. He’d even managed to apprehend one of them and drag him back to the temple. You’d think that would be enough to earn a few days recovery, but no. His muscles ache and his face is still sore from the healers resetting his nose, but that doesn’t stop the thrum of the hyperdrive or the way the streaks of light flash outside the viewport as they cross the galaxy, heading toward their destination.

In the pilot’s seat is Master Dooku, reading through his own mission briefing now that they’re safely ensconced in hyperspace. During his early Padawan days, Dooku had been a frequent visitor to their quarters. Obi-Wan suspected the man worried after Qui-Gon’s health, with Kenobi being the first Padawan the Master had taken after Xanatos’ Fall. He’d drop in on their ‘saber training sessions, or meditation practice, or simply bring tea around in the morning and have soft conversation over the fragrant steam that curled from their cups. The visits had grown less and less, however, until they stopped altogether with Dooku’s assignment as a Watchman. This is the first time he’s been back to the Temple in almost ten years, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure where he stands with the powerful Master after so much time apart.

This is without mentioning the shift in the man’s Force signature. Admittedly, Dooku had never been the brightest of the Jedi. He was never a supernova of Light, like Master Yoda or Master Koon, but there was always something about him that was inherently good. It was a brightness passed down to Qui-Gon and, Obi-Wan hopes, to himself. Whatever the man had seen during his time away from the temple had dulled that light to an unfamiliar grey, sharp and cold. He hasn’t said a word to Obi-Wan beyond the standard exchange of pleasantries before their briefing with the Council. Even now, he’s acting as though Obi-Wan isn’t even in the room.

Qui-Gon isn’t even here to rescue him from the oppressive silence. His Master is back in the ship’s small crew quarters, likely twitching his way through another nightmare. He goes out of his way to hide them, thinks Obi-Wan hasn’t noticed, but there’s only so many nights one can wake up screaming before somebody catches on. He’s giving Qui-Gon space to work out the dreams on his own, but a part of Obi-Wan wishes the man would come to him. Obi-Wan knows a thing or two about nightmares; he knows that they’re easier handled when shared and talked through. Bottling it up will only make it worse.

He won’t push, though. Qui-Gon is notoriously stubborn amongst the Jedi, and to try and pressure him to talk would only strain the still-fragile trust they’re rebuilding following everything that’s happened. Instead he leaves his Master be and tries to strengthen the shielding between himself and his Master whenever he feels Qui-Gon descending into the grips of another night terror. Never would he have thought that a day would come where he’d willingly block off that bond, but the Master’s emotions are too much for him when the episodes come. If he’s going to remain level-headed, a steady foundation for his Master to lean on, he can’t be dragged down into that turmoil, as well.

Deciding he’s not going to get anything beneficial done is this state of mind, Obi-Wan closes the mission briefing and pulls up another file: the one on the Sith. Access to a file with such a high clearance is a privilege, likely only granted on the account that Obi-Wan is the only one to really interact with the Sith Lords so far. He’d been notified earlier that Vader’s file had been updated, and the curiosity has been eating away at his attentiveness for the better part of the morning. Where had once been a simple physical description and note about _Suspected Dark Side User—Approach with Caution_ , there are now medical reports and photographs and a classification as _Sith—Do Not Approach. Contact Council Immediately_. It warms him to know that the Council is finally taking Vader’s threat seriously, even if it required the man’s capture ad subsequent escape to get them there.

Human, male, early to mid-twenties. Six feet tall, blonde hair, golden eyed. Planet of Origin: Outer Rim (Unconfirmed). Weapon: Lightsaber. Crystal Color: White. Obi-Wan knows all these things, most of it is information he gathered himself, and scrolls past in search of the data that Healers collected during the Sith’s brief stint in the Halls. There are a number of mundane details about the man’s blood pressure and heartrate and glucose levels, and Obi-Wan ignores those as well. They aren’t what he needs, either.

What catches his eyes first is a collection of photographs, filed away under the heading Prominent Markings. It seems that before they’d bound his ribs, the Healers had taken their time and captured what appears to be an extensive collection of scars and give educated guesses as to their cause. The most visible is the large scar that bisects the man’s right eye; anyone who wields a lightsaber could tell you the origin of that one. They all have a few, be it from training accidents or mishaps in combat, and the way the flesh heals is easily identifiable. There are more, however, trailing down his shoulders chest and abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his pant. Some of them the Healers had been able to identify, their origins listed as blaster fire or vibroblade or more lightsaber scars. There are a few that that could list no discernable cause, the most prominent of which being a large, fractal patterned scar on the center of the man’s chest—like a burn, but not quite.

The other thing that he notices is Vader’s bloodwork. It’s standard procedure to run a Midichlorian count on any Force User encountered by the Jedi for the sake of their records, and Obi-Wan’s heartbeat stutters at what Vader’s had turned up. There are notices of the Healer’s heavy skepticism left in the margins, arguments about faulty equipment and bad samples and any number of things that could explain away the results, but something in the Padawan’s gut tells him that nothing went amiss in their tests. The result are accurate: twenty-three thousand midichlorians.

He felt that power in action, back on Malachor. Sensed as it swelled and crested at Vader’s summons; watched it throw Qui-Gon clear across the room as though he were nothing more than a ragdoll; felt it take hold of his very being and exert its own will upon him, freezing muscles in place. So much raw strength—the strongest Force User encountered in recorded Jedi history. The thought turns his stomach, and then he remembers Ilum. He remembers Adelfos ripping that power away as though it were nothing, and that doesn’t help his nausea at all. If Vader was this strong, how powerful would Adelfos have to be in order to override the other Sith’s will?

They know even less about the second Sith’s agenda than they do Vader’s. At least Vader seems to be actively avoiding causing them harm, as evidenced in their brief encounters. Adelfos doesn’t seem to share his reservations, if Obi-Wan’s broken nose is any indication. The second Sith’s file is barely more than a few lines. Male, middle-aged, likely human, lightsaber with a white crystal. Heavy Core accent. Reiterations of the warnings on Vader’s file. Again, things Obi-Wan knows because it’s information that he gathered himself. It tells them nothing of the man’s motives, of his history, of his plans. Adelfos is a mystery—one that needs solving quickly, before they’re forced to deal with the repercussions of their ignorance.

__

A Jedi does not hate, but Qui-Gon imagines that Obi-Wan will immediately decide that he will make an exception for Dathomir. His Padawan has never been particularly fond of alien climates.

The forest they land the shuttle in is barely more than a glorified swamp. The air is humid, hot and oppressive, and their robes are sticking to their skin before they’ve even reached the edge of the clearing. A dense mist, thick with the power of the Dark Side, obscures their path and weighs on their mental shields. Unfamiliar flora blooms all around, faintly bioluminescent, letting off a pungent aroma that’s impossible to ignore. Trees with thick branches tower above them, bathing the forest floor in murky shadow. Sometimes Obi-Wan’s head jerks up, as though he can see something moving in the canopy.

They walk single file through the rough terrain, Qui-Gon leading the group and Dooku bringing up the rear. The latter has his lightsaber in hand, unignited, but prepared for unexpected attack. Qui-Gon’s own hangs at his belt, within reach should he need it. He doesn’t believe he will, though, and stated as much when they disembarked. Dooku is obviously uncomfortable, but whether that has to do with the lack of visibility or the effects of the Dark on his already grey Force Signature is unclear.

It has been some time since Qui-Gon first visited this planet and its inhabitants, back during the early days of his Knighthood. A mission in a nearby system gone awry led to an emergency landing in the Nghtsisters’ forest. He’d been injured, but the feared Witches of Dathomir had been kind enough to take him in and tend to his wounds while he waited for someone to pick up on his distress beacon. By the time his old Master had arrived to collect him, he’d struck up quite a rapport with the Sisters’ leader, Mother Talzan. While Qui-Gon has always been known for his unorthodox methods and contacts, the shock on Dooku’s face upon realizing that his old student had befriended these Darksiders had been enough to tell him that _this_ was taking his methods well and beyond his usual standards of disregard for the Code. Qui-Gon has only been back a handful of times since then, mostly seeking advice on how to handle the fallen Xanatos, but he suspects that Talzan and her Daughters will still be amicable to his presence.

 “What, exactly, are we looking for?” Obi-Wan huffs, nearly tripping over a large root he hadn’t seen through the fog. His distaste for this planet carries loudly through their training bond, and Qui-Gon has to smother a smirk at the confirmation of his suspicions.

“The village of the Nightsisters,” the Master responds jovially. “It should be up this way, if I recall correctly.”

“You mean a village full of Dark Side Witches? Those Nightsisters?”

Qui-Gon looks over his shoulder at his Padawan, this time unable to stop the teasing smile. “Why Obi-Wan, if I didn’t know better, I would say you were frightened.”

“I’m not afraid,” the Padawan grouses. “Just…cautious. Out last few encounters with Darksiders haven’t exactly ended well, if you’ll recall.”

“Darksider is not synonymous with Sith, Padawan,” Dooku chides. “The Nightsisters use the Dark Side because it is what’s available to them, and what they’ve been using for centuries. That does not mean they don’t value the Light. In fact, Padawan Ventress was born in this place. She’s a few years younger than you, I believe.”

Obi-Wan hums, acknowledging his Grandmaster’s point, but isn’t given long to process that information. When a moment ago it had been just the three of them, they now find themselves surrounded. A collection of grey-skinned aliens drop from the canopy (Obi-Wan was apparently right about seeing movement there), plasma bows and swords drawn as they circle the group of Jedi. The Padawan draws his ‘saber, but Qui-Gon is quick to interfere, holding up a placating hand and fixing his Obi-Wan with a sharp look until the boy thumbs thee device off. The Sisters bear no symbols to indicate ranking, but the presumed leader of their patrol steps forward.

“You are trespassing in the Nightsisters’ forest,” she growls. “Identify yourself, and state your business.”

Qui-Gon puts on a genial smile. “My name is Master Qui-Gon Jinn. My companions here are Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi and Master Yan Dooku. We represent the Jedi Order, and were hoping to have a word with Mother Talzan. She and I are old friends.”

The Nightsisters don’t appear particularly impressed by his claim. Their leader raises a skeptical eyebrow and exchanges glances with the rest of her patrol in silent communication. Qui-Gon can see that Obi-Wan is tense, prepared to launch into action should the Witches become hostile, and he spots Dooku eyeing the Padawan’s open hostility with stern disapproval. His old Master would prefer to end things diplomatically, has always held a disdain for violence despite his skill with a ‘saber, and had passed that trait down to Qui-Gon during his years under the man’s tutelage. Despite his best efforts, Obi-Wan still struggles with such principles.

Footsteps through the underbrush draw their stalemate to a close, an aging Nightsister stepping out from the shadows and into the small clearing. The younger relax their weapons with her arrival, and Qui-Gon’s expression morphs from a diplomatic smile to one of genuine delight. The Witch answer his grin with one of her own, stepping forward and embracing him when he moves to greet her.

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” she laughs as she pulls away, “it has been some time, my friend.”

“Too long, Mother Talzan,” the Master responds. “This is my Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I’m sure you remember my old Master, Yan Dooku.”

Dooku gives the Mother a regal bow, making Obi-Wan’s own seem clumsy in comparison. Talzan nods to each of them in turn, and returns her attention to Qui-Gon. “You are here about the recent disturbances in the Force, I presume?” She asks, stepping back in the way she came and gesturing for them to follow. Qui-Gon steps to her side, Dooku and Obi-Wan behind them, and the Nightsisters bringing up the rear.

“We are,” he confirms. “Over the last few weeks, my Padawan and I have had several run-ins with two Dark Force users who claim to be Sith. While neither of these encounters have ended particularly violently—a broken nose and some bruises—we know little about them, nor their plans. The Jedi cannot see into the shadows of the Dark Side, and the Council was hoping you may have some insight into current events.”

The forest around them falls away, opening up to the base of a steep mountain. Carved into the stone is the face of a temple. They climb the small staircase leading up to the entryway, several of the Nightsisters darting past them to announce their arrival. “The Dark Side is crafty. It hides many things, even from its followers,” Talzan says, beckoning them to the entryway and into the cave system beyond. “But I will tell  you what I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that lightning strikes can leave scars? They're called Lichtenburg Figures, and I thought it would be pretty nifty to give Anakin some, as Sidious' lightning in their final confrontation had to have done some damage. Ben has a scar, too, around the base of his neck where Vader beheaded him on the Death Star.
> 
> I always loved the idea of Qui-Gon being super unorthodox and the bane of the Council's existence, so it'd make sense that he'd have some strange friends. In this case, Dathomirian Witches.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has officially gone from "probably unhealthy relationship" to "definitely unhealthy relationship". Thanks, Ben.

Eerie green smoke rises from the basin on the table, spilling over its edges and onto the tabletop, gliding over the wooden surface and oozing to the floor below. It laps at their legs like an incoming tide, slowly filling the cavernous room, and carrying with it the oppressive weight of the Dark Side. It moves like a sentient creature—as though it is made of more than power and air. Obi-Wan can see dark shapes moving within it—shadows of the past and the present and a future yet to be.

Mother Talzin stands at the table’s head, palms extended over top of the basin, chanting words in a language forgotten long ago to all but the Witches of Dathomir. They echo unnaturally in the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls and pounding in their ears. This, Obi-Wan knows, is Dark Side magic. He does not need to have studied its intricacies to recognize the rush of cold power that is quickly becoming more familiar than Obi-Wan would like it to be. Had someone told him even a month ago that interaction with the Dark Side would be something he’d be doing on a regular basis, he would have laughed in their face. Now, though, he yearns for the naivety of his past self, who believed the Sith as dangerous as monsters under the bed and thought the Jedi Council knew everything. He would have been wrong on both counts, but at least he wouldn’t be here.

“You are aware,” Mother Talzin asks, breaking off from her chanting to eye the three seated Jedi, “of the Jedi’s prophecy of the Chosen One, yes?”

Qui-Gon nods enthusiastically, launching into explanation both for Obi-Wan’s sake, and because he gets very excited about these sorts of things and occasionally has a difficult time keeping that enthusiasm to himself. “The prophecy states that the Force will one day bestow a Chosen One with immense power. With it, the Chosen One will at last bring balance to the Force.”

Dooku rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like poppycock, and Obi-Wan has to stifle a giggle as Mother Talzin turns to scowl at him, clearly having heard the derisive comment. Dooku scowls right back.

“You are correct, Master Jinn,” Talzin confirms, finally ending her battle of wills with the eldest Jedi, “but did you know that the Dark Side has its own prophecy of the Chosen?”

The smoke curling around their feet crawls back up the legs of the table and pools on its surface, awaiting the Nightmother’s instruction. Obi-Wan has to resist the urge to yank his hands from where they’d been resting on the tabletop at the feeling of the mist brushing over his knuckles. He thinks he did a decent job of relocating them to his lap without looking too suspicious, but he catches Qui-Gon giving him a knowing look from the corner of his eye and realizes that he may not have been as subtle as he previously thought.

“Once,” Talzin begins, “there were two brothers—not in blood, but in blade, brought together and bound by the Force.”

The shadows moving within the smoke solidify into something clearer, and Obi-Wan can make out the smiling face of Vader as he strolls what appears to be the halls of the Jedi temple. His robes aren’t very different from the ones he wore during their previous encounters, but this vision-Vader carries himself differently than the Sith; his eyes are the same deep blue they were when he pulled Obi-Wan to safety in the temple of Malachor. At his side walks a man, features obscured by the hood of his beige cloak.

“One was ambitious, impulsive, and passionate; the other calm, patient, and rational. Together, they were powerful. Together, they were Balance.”

Vader and the other man part ways at a fork in the hall with companionable claps on the shoulder, but Vader’s face falls as he watches the other man’s back receding. It’s only when the other disappears from view that he turns, padding down his own hall.

“The Light foresaw many threats to her Chosen One, but what she could not have seen were the manipulations of the Sith.”

Vader paces the floor of a nondescript apartment, gesturing wildly with arms wildly and speaking swiftly to a man in a black cloak. Obi-Wan begins to think that maybe there’s something more symbolic going on here than just an upswing in the population with an interest in cloaks with hoods. These are people they’ve not encountered—figures without names or faces, who play a role in the Grand Scheme.

“The Sith Master spun an elaborate trap, ensnaring the Chosen One in his clutches. Alienated from the Order by the Sith’s machinations, the Chosen One fell.”

The images that follow in the mist are of fire and smoke and death. Obi-Wan’s stomach turns as two sky blue lightsabers clash against a background of molten red.

“It fell to the Brother to defeat the newly fallen Sith, and while both survived the battle in body, they were not left whole in mind or in spirit. This was not the future the Force had planned for; this was not Balance. It was decided to try again—to return the brothers to the time before the fall, where perhaps they would find Balance once again.”

“Are you saying that Darth Vader is a time traveler?” Obi-Wan squawks. Dooku seems to share his skepticism, expressive brows knitting together in disbelief.

“It would make a certain amount of sense if he was,” Qui-Gon muses. “You yourself said that he had more information on you—on us—than he rightfully should have.”

“B-but still! Time travel? That’s crazy!”

“Is there anything more you can tell us, Mother Talzin?” Qui-Gon asks. “More about this Brother, perhaps?”

Talzin sighs, and with a flick of her wrist, the smoke dissipates into nothingness just as quickly as it came. “I’m afraid this is all I have to share, Master Jinn. The return is all the ancient Sith foresaw; the return is all I can tell you of. As I said, there is much the Dark hides, even from its own practitioners.”

“No! There has to be more!” Obi-Wan yelps. “This didn’t answer any of our questions at all! If anything, it only raised more questions!”

“Padawan Kenobi,” Dooku reprimands, effectively silencing the youngest member of the party.

Qui-Gon releases a long breath before pushing away from the table and rising to his feet. The other two Jedi follow suit. “Thank you, Mother Talzin, for sharing this knowledge with us.”

“I am only sorry that I did not have more to tell you.”

“We should return to the temple, now. We have much to report to the Council.”

“The hour is growing late, Master Jinn,” Talzin responds, “and your ship is quite far. I think it would be best if you stayed the night. There are things in the forest you do not want to meet in the dark.”

Obi-Wan starts at the offer, the prospect of spending the night in a place so saturated by the Dark Side turning his stomach. Masters Jinn and Dooku exchange a long look, communicating silently as Masters and Padawans are prone to doing, before they nod and return their attention to the Nightmother.

“We would like to take you up on your offer,” Dooku says. “Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

This is not what Obi-Wan signed up for.

Dinner is a lumpy stew that tastes better than it looks, and then they’re ushered into a spare hut in the massive underground village in which the Nightsisters reside. Three sleeping mats have been rolled out on the floor, and the Masters thank their guides for the hospitality once again before they settle down for the night.

Dooku is the first to drift off, the Master’s breath deepening into the cadence of sleep within a matter of minutes. Obi-Wan would be surprised if he didn’t know that most Masters are capable of falling asleep anywhere; it’s a skill all Jedi develop eventually, their busy lives making it a necessity. Obi-Wan does not, however, and neither does Qui-Gon if the soft hum of their bond is anything to go by. Thoughts that aren’t his own filter through his mind, and Obi-Wan knows that his Master is considering everything that Talzin told them today. It’s a lot to process, even for an experienced Master who believes in all the Prophecy kabuki.

“Master?” He asks, softly, as to no wake the sleeping Dooku.

“Hm?”

“Do you think… do you think that Adelfos could be the Brother that Talzin talked about? The one the Force supposedly brought back with Vader?”

“I don’t know, Padawan. You’re the only one who’s spent any time with the both of them. Do you think he could be?”

“Mother Talzin said that they were… balanced. Light and Dark, equal but opposite. When they saw each other on Ilum, they didn’t seem balanced. Adelfos was in control; Vader was afraid of him. If they were meant to work together, if the Force meant to reunite them, wouldn’t he be happy to see his Brother again? To have a chance to make things right? And besides, Adelfos is a Sith. They both are. That doesn’t fit with the Sith prophecy either.”

“So maybe he isn’t. Maybe Adelfos is the Sith Master who orchestrated his fall.”

“But if he is, why would Vader go back? Why would he willingly go with him, if he did all those horrible things? Especially now, if he’s been given a second chance?”

“You have to consider his situation, Padawan,” Qui-Gon sighs. “If he really is what the prophecy states, he would have woken in a strange time, in a strange place. He may not even know that this other man is here in the past with him. If you were alone, and afraid, would you not seek out a familiar face?”

 He has a point. Obi-Wan can’t say he understands, not completely, but then he’s never been a Sith time traveler before. He’s never been truly alone—not since he was a child and Qui-Gon came into his life. “Maybe… maybe we can help him? He doesn’t want to hurt us. Maybe if we can separate Vader from the Master, if we can find the Brother, we can help him.”

“Maybe, Padawan. We’ll talk to the Council when we return, and see what they have to say. Now get some sleep.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll be able to, not with the Dark Side so close and so much turning around in his mind, but there’s a Force Command imbued in the Master’s words that rolls across their bond, lulling him into the bliss of unconsciousness.

__

Qui-Gon wakes in the night, breath heaving, but there is nothing unusual about that now. The Force Command he placed over Obi-Wan is still in effect, the Padawan dozing undisturbed on his mat, but Dooku is awake. The old Master is seated at Qui-Gon’s side, brows furrowed with concern, a hand hovering just over the younger Master’s arm, as though he was still deciding whether or not to disturb his former padawan when he woke of his own accord. He retracts is when Qui-Gon struggles upright, but it returns and settles on his shoulder as soon as he’s finished shifting. Qui-Gon is thankful for the warmth, grounding him in the present as visions of death and destruction continue to dance behind his eyes.

“Are you alright, Padawn?” Dooku asks, the question accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his shoulder.

In another situation, Qui-Gon might feel embarrassed by the way he leans into the familiar touch like a youngling seeking comfort, especially when he and his old Master are well beyond those years. Not this night, though, when such comfort is freely offered. “It’s just a nightmare,” he sighs, scrubbing at watering eyes.

“Have you suffered from them before?”

“They started shortly after our first encounter with Vader on Malachor. They’ve become more frequent, more vivid, in the weeks since.”

“Have you spoken with anyone about them?”

“No,” Qui-Gon says with a weak chuckle. “The Council would just tell me to wait it out, that they’d stop eventually, like they did when Obi-Wan got them as a new padawan. I figured, what would be the point?”

A pause, hesitation born of their years apart, then, “Would you like to tell me about them?”

So Qui-Gon does. He speaks of the Master and Padawan who have haunted his dreams—how he’s watched them struggle for their place within the Order, how they’ve had to work for the respect of peers who should have accepted them simple as they are. He speaks of those flashes of death and destruction, of men in white armor and droids that kill, and how these dreams are never as clear as the ones involving the pair, but leave him breathless with fear nonetheless.

“When we encountered Vader the first time, I thought Obi-Wan would be the one at risk of any consequences his presence might have brought,” Qui-Gon admits, “but it seems that I’m the one struggling with the aftereffects. I don’t understand what the Force is trying to show me, but I wish it would stop.”

“You should not have kept these dreams to yourself, Padawan,” Dooku chides. “These are not the simple premonitions of a boy who cannot yet control his power; there is a Darkness to them. You should have shared this with the Council. They could have helped you understand the meaning behind them before they got this bad.”

“Fine,” Qui-Gon relents under his Master’s firm gaze, “I will discuss it with the Council upon our return.”

“Good,” the Master older hums. “Now, I think it best we try for a few more hours of sleep before the morning comes.”

With that, Dooku returns to his own sleeping mat, leaving Qui-Gon to settle once more. He glances over at Obi-Wan’s sleeping form and sighs, remembering their earlier conversation, and whispers to himself, “It seems like we have much to discuss with the Council.”

__

There is only one cot in the Negotiator’s crew quarters. Granted, it’s on the larger side as far as cots on freighters go, but still. One cot.

Anakin doesn’t really consider it an issue, he and Ben have shared countless beds on missions or during the war, but Ben takes one look at it and promptly declares that he’s sleeping in the cockpit.

Don’t get him wrong, it’s not that Anakin wants to share a bed with his Master—it’s just that he’d kind of expected it. Their time together has, so far, consisted of a spending a lot of time doing things like they used to. They’ve fallen back into a routine that is comfortable in its familiarity, the part of Ben’s student easy to slip back into even after twenty years estranged from the role. Ben rises early and preaches the benefits of meditation and loathes the alien climate; Anakin curses the morning and can barely hold still and explores other planets with a child’s curiosity. Just like old times. And in the old times, they shared a bed, and there was nothing weird about it.

This sudden disregard for the status quo has thrown everything off, leaving Anakin a bit disoriented and unsure of what to do now. He can’t even get anything over their Bond, as high as Ben’s built up his mental shields.

The logical answer is, of course, to lay down in the cot, go to sleep, and hope that Ben works out whatever this is on his own. However, Anakin has never been one to simply accept the logical answer, and is probably the number one authority on reasons why letting people brood on their own is a bad idea, considering his own history. His brooding toppled not one, but two galactic regimes, and while Jedi Ben was never the type to go off the rails and commit a genocide, he hasn’t really gotten to push the boundaries with Sith Ben enough to be comfortable taking that risk. So he follows his Master into the cockpit, regardless of that little voice in the back of his head that’s telling him this is a really bad idea.

Ben glares up at him from his place in the pilot’s seat, looking exhausted and exasperated and like he knows what’s coming and would rather die right here, right now than have this conversation. “Are you not going to take the cot, then?”

Anakin glares right back. “Why don’t you share it with me?” He challenges.

“It’s not a good idea,” the Master sighs, surprising the Apprentice when he averts his gaze, staring out the viewport instead.

“Why is it not a good idea? We used to do it all the time before, and you never had a problem with it.”

“That was before.”

“So what’s changed? You obviously don’t have a problem with me, if the fact that you had me in your lap other night was any indication, so why can’t you just come lay down? The cot is plenty big enough to hold the both of us, and a hell of a lot more comfortable than the pilot’s chair.”

“I shouldn’t have done that…”

“Shouldn’t have done what?” Anakin squawks. “Held me? Are you serious?”

“Anakin—”

“No!” He snaps, marching across the cockpit and forcing himself into Ben’s lap, straddling the man’s legs like he had the other night. “You can’t just cut me out like this! Not like last time!”

The Master’s hands, previously flat on the armrest of the chair, are now digging to the synthleather hard enough that his nails are likely to leave imprints. “We are not having this conversation,” Ben hisses, “now get off me.”

“Not until you tell me what’s—”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because there’s quite suddenly a crushing pressure around his windpipe, cutting off the escape of any further arguments. The hand around his neck drags him down until he’s eye-level with Ben—no, Adelfos, this is definitely Adelfos—the Master’s golden eyes flashing dangerously.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you, Apprentice,” Adelfos spits the title like an insult, and Anakin would flinch if not for the firm grip the Master has on him, “and I expect my commands to be obeyed. Now. Get. Off.”

All it takes is a small shove to unbalance Anakin’s precarious perch and send him sprawling to the durasteel floor. His mechanical arm takes most of the impact, but it’s still not a pleasant sensation, the sudden upending leaving him rattled. Adelfos does not offer to help him up, doesn’t even look at him, merely swiveling the chair out of the way of Anakin so that he can prop his feet up on the control panel.

“Go to bed, Anakin.”

This time, Anakin does not argue, rising unsteadily to his feet and fleeing back into the crew’s quarters with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, our Jedi put their heads together and come to the wrong conclusion entirely. Way to go, kids.
> 
> Ben is really defensive about sharing a bed with Anakin because he's 100% aware that his self-control since falling is literally shit, and he's still struggling with this whole attraction to Anakin thing. It was fine in theory, when Anakin was an abstract concept and beyond his reach, but now that he's actually there, Ben is concerned about not being able to control himself. And of course he's a stubborn ass who's too proud to just admit it, so he's just going to make this situation worse before it gets better.  
>  ~~it's not going to get better~~


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why are you like this?" I ask as I edit the tags of this fic yet again because Ben has gone and done another new completely fucking horrible thing. 
> 
> I have no control over this character. He is loose. Someone catch him.

They leave at first light, setting out with the rising sun in hopes of reaching their ship before the planet’s muggy heat becomes too oppressive. Mother Talzin follows them as far as the cave’s mouth, a patrol of Nightsisters escort them to the tree line, and then they’re on their own. Qui-Gon takes the lead once again, Obi-Wan and Dooku following behind as they had on their first hike through the forest. This early in the morning, the forest is alive with life, various fauna singing in the canopy or scurrying through the underbrush. It’s the only sound heard as they walk, the Jedi themselves silent. There’s a lot on their minds after this strange trip, which seems to have left them with more questions than answers.

Qui-Gon decides to blame aforementioned for why they don’t sense the presence of another Force user until they’re almost right on top of him.

The clearing their ship is parked in is not as empty as it should be. In fact, there is a black-cloaked figure leaning against the freighter’s hull, the hilt of a lightsaber hanging from his hip. For a brief moment, Qui-Gon thinks it could be Vader or Adelfos, but there’s something in the Force telling him not to let his guard down—there is a danger hanging in the air that wasn’t present during their previous encounters with Vader. A quick glance over his shoulder is enough to confirm this theory: Obi-Wan tense as a bowstring, eyes narrowed at the newcomer in suspicion and hand hovering over the hilt of his lightsaber. If this were Vader or his Master, there would be less open hostility and more playing for information involved, now that they know even the littlest bit more about the men who’ve shadowed them for weeks.

“Finally,” the stranger growls, pushing off the ship and stalking across the clearing toward them, pulling his lightsaber free. “I was growing tired of waiting.”

“Who are you?” Qui-Gon asks, igniting his own ‘saber. “What are you doing here?”

With hi free hand, the man draws back his hood, revealing skin the color of fresh blood, marked with intricate black tattoos that flow down his neck and past the collar of his robes. Atop his head is a crown of bones—horns protruding from his skull in the standard of male Zabrak. His eyes glow the sickly yellow of the Sith.

“I am Maul,” the man says, thumbing the activation switch of his ‘saber, the weapon’s dual blades a bold crimson, “and I will kill you.”

Qui-Gon hears Obi-Wan and Dooku’s ‘sabers ignite at the same time Maul lunges, but they will not be fast enough to intercept the Sith’ first blow.

Miraculously—it does not make contact. The crimson blade passes harmlessly over Qui-Gon’s head, perhaps singeing a few stray hairs at the worst, not because of any particular skill of the Master, but because his knees give out under the sudden onslaught of foreign emotions that rush into his mind and shred through his mental shields like they were made of flimsi.

 _RagepainsorrowgriefhatehateHATE._ Hate so powerful that Qui-Gon buckles under its pressure, mind flayed open and left vulnerable to the insatiable fires of someone else’s rage and thirst for revenge. His weapon falls from limp fingers, and the Master barely manages to keep himself from landing face-first as memories belonging to another flash behind his eyes, like his nightmares have followed him into the light of day. Someone is making a wretched, keening noise, and Qui-Gon realizes with some horror that it’s coming from him.

A presence previously masked within the planet’s natural Darkness reveals itself, another black-cloaked silhouette simultaneously erupting from the dense foliage surrounding the clearing and making a beeline for Maul, who is recovering from the overshoot of his initial target. Qui-Gon only glimpses the eruption of a white ‘saber from the hilt of the newcomer’s hand before unconsciousness claims him and he slumps into the dirt.

__

There’s a ring of bruises around Anakin’s throat in the morning. The rational part of Ben’s mind cringes at the results of his display of unwarranted brutality, but that thing in the back of his mind, the one he’d always managed to silence as a Jedi but never been able to control as a Sith, preens at having left a mark on his Apprentice. Physical proof of ownership—of Anakin’s submission; a grotesque collar of splotchy purples and reds.

Anakin hasn’t spoken a word to him by the time they set out to tail the Jedi party back to their ship, which Ben supposes he’s earned after his behavior last night. Now that he’s in a little more rational headspace, he knows his Apprentice had simply been confused about his sudden mood swing. The boy’s abandonment issues haven’t abated in the twenty years they spent apart, may even grow worse now that Ben is his only constant in this new life, and his Master’s sudden reluctance to engage with him must have triggered every red flag in the younger man’s mind. Of course he would have gotten a little frantic in his attempts to remedy the perceived distance. Anakin has faced down monsters, but there is nothing the boy fears more than being alone.

An apology lingers on the tip of Ben’s tongue, has been for the better part of the morning, but it stubbornly clings there and refuses to be pulled loose. He did warn Anakin, after all. Ben warned him to drop the subject, to back away, but the boy was obstinate in his attempts to draw some sort of reaction from his Master. And he did get a reaction, in the end, even if it wasn’t the one he wanted. Once again his eyes are drawn to the bruising on the boy’s neck, tracking one of Anakin’s hands as it darts up to rub at the abused flesh, and the confusing mix of _prideguiltpleasure_ races through his veins. He should have at least offered to heal it before they left the ship.

The pair walk side by side for most of the journey, despite the distance Anakin keeps between them at first. For all Ben is the Master in their relationship, he has never been one to force Anakin to adhere to the practice of staying just a few steps behind him, even during the boy’s padawan days. While it had alienated them from the rest of the Jedi, who believed the breach of decorum disrespectful, it had worked wonders in earning the respect of the skittish slave boy he’d been entrusted with. The ploy seems to work equally well now, the Apprentice’s stiff posture slowly relaxing as he drifts closer and closer, steadily growing more confident that Ben isn’t likely to lash out at him for the proximity. The Master has to smother a smug smile at the first brush of their shoulders, pleased with Anakin’s return to his rightful place at Ben’s side.

They still don’t speak; Ben absently wonders if Anakn even can, considering the state his neck must be in. Instead they ride the high of each other’s closeness, allowing mental shields to fall enough for emotion to pass along the Bond. There’s still a bit of resentment lingering on Anakin’s side of the Bond, spiking when the boy swallows and agitates his battered throat, but Ben doesn’t take it personally. Most of what he receives, outside of those sharp bursts of hard feelings, is the warm, hazy relief at Anakin no longer being kept out. Ben sends back his own contentment with his Apprentice’s company, which only serves to magnify the boy’s feelings.

The spell is abruptly broken when Anakin stiffens, freezing mid-step and wrenching himself away from the Bond so fast that Ben is momentarily disoriented. The Apprentice casts his senses out, and a clipped, almost panicked warning of _there’s someone else here_ presses into Ben’s mind. They move in unison, years of stealth training kicking in as they hurry toward the Jedi party’s location, the Dark presence Anakin first felt growing with every passing second. Ben can feel Qui-Gon’s surprise, his fear, for whoever they’ve encountered through their patchwork Bond, only serving to quicken the pair’s pace.

Drawing to a halt just outside the clearing, they arrive in time to watch the figure standing across from the party draw back his hood, revealing a face that has haunted Ben’s nightmares since he was twenty-five and orphaned in the eyes of the Order.

Maul.

Ben doesn’t know how the Sith Apprentice came to be on Dathomir, nor how he knew where they would be. In fact, Ben doesn’t particularly care as rational thought is wiped clean from his mind by a tidal wave of bloodlust and rage as the enemy Sith advances of the Jedi party. He has no hope of containing these emotions, can feel them leaking through his bonds to his Master and his Apprentice, the former of which unable to withstand the rush and collapsing on the field before them. Maul’s blade barely misses its target, and that is enough to send Ben storming from the underbrush without a second thought.

“Master!” Anakin croaks, attempting to catch his cloak as he goes, but Ben pays him no heed. Rationally, revealing himself to the Jedi, Maul, and by extension Sidious, is probably the worst idea Ben has ever had. Unfortunately, there is not a single rational thought left in the Sith Master’s mind as he ignites his ‘saber and lunges at the man who would dare threaten what _belongs_ to Ben.

“You must be the rogue Darksider my Master spoke of,” Maul sneers when their blades lock. “And to think he believed you couldn’t be drawn out by a threat to your pet Jedi.”

The Sith shove away from each other, putting distance between themselves and falling into the opening steps of their respective forms: Juyo for Maul and Ben in Soresu. The pause in their conflict lasts long enough for Dooku and a slightly dazed Padwan Kenobi to drag Master Jinn’s unresponsive form away from the dueling pair, Ben tracking their progress with the corner of his mind reserved for such things. The padawan likely suffered his share of side effects from Ben’s emotional outburst, however latent it may have been through the boy’s Bond with their Master. He does not dwell on that line of thought long, however, as Maul leaps at him and their duel begins in earnest.

__

By the time the second Sith arrived on the scene, Obi-Wan could not claim he was entirely surprised. A little disoriented, yes, but that was mostly due to the strange outburst that had filtered through the Bond by way of Qui-Gon’s shattered shields and not the sudden arrival of a second Sith. At this point, the day being ruined by unscheduled Darksider interference has become a fact of life, and Obi-Wan thinks he’s spent enough time worrying about it. Instead he holds Qui-Gon’s unconscious form to his chest and watches the duel take place. Dooku stands just behind them, ready to interfere should the situation take a turn for the worse.

The new-newcomer is shorter than Vader by only an inch or two, by Obi-Wan’s estimation. Late thirties, with prematurely greying, auburn hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Eyes like molten gold are set in what would likely be handsome features when not twisted by animalistic rage. There’s a scar around the base of his throat, bared occasionally as he moves. He doesn’t look like a traditional Sith Lord—not in the way Maul does—but then, neither does Vader. Obi-Wan knows who this is, though. The lightsaber would be a dead giveaway, its blade a soft white, even if he hadn’t felt this Force presence before.

“Adelfos,” he breathes, and feels Dooku start at the realization.

Darth Adelfos: Vader’s Sith Master and the very man whose authority they seek to usurp. If he’s here, than Vader likely isn’t far—probably hidden back in the underbrush Adelfos emerged from, if Obi-Wan had to guess. While he hadn’t thought they’d get the chance to try and pry Vader free from his Master’s grip so soon, Obi-Wan isn’t about to let this opportunity go to waste. They need to find a way to draw him out first, though.

With Qui-Gon still out cold, likely to stay that way until a mind healer can have a look at the damage to his shields, there is little Obi-Wan himself can do. They can’t leave the Master unattended, lest he caught in the crossfire between Adelfos and Maul. Adelfos, strangely enough, seems to be trying to keep the Zabrak away from the trio, keeping himself firmly between the other Sith and the Jedi party. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t throw Qui-Gon to the wolves should it become advantageous, however, which limits their options. A quick glance up at Dooku reveals that they seem to be on the same page, the elder Master’s eyes flickering between the foliage around the edge of the clearing and the duel happening nearby.

“Adelfos seems to be handling Maul well enough,” Dooku says, “but if I were to also try to engage him, we may be able to draw Vader into the open.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Obi-Wan warns. “I’ve dueled him before. He’s skilled with a ‘saber.”

“It will be less dangerous than leaving him in the hands of a Sith Master.” Dooku takes the first few steps toward the dueling pair, saber ignited, then calls back over his shoulder, “Get Qui-Gon to the ship. We need to be ready to take off as soon as I have Vader. It is unlikely that they will be separated willingly.”

Obi-Wan nods sharply in understanding, and Dooku returns to his approach of Adelfos. Obi-Wan would like to see just how close he gets before Vader interferes, but Dooku is right. Adelfos broke into the Jedi Temple to reclaim his Apprentice; he’s not going to let them take Vader without a fight, and none of them are in good enough shape right now to do combat with a Sith Master. So instead he gets a grip around his Master’s torso and rises unsteadily to his feet. He’s still a bit wobbly, but grows more balanced as he begins hauling the unconscious Jedi toward the ship.

__

Twin red blades clash against white, and Ben can feel the raw power that courses through his veins. Unlike Ilum, where the natural Light given off by the kyber crystals had dulled his power, Dathomir’s very earth is soaked in the power of the Dark Side. It rises up like a fountain when he calls upon it, bending to his will and imbuing his every strike with power beyond his physical strength.

He’s going to enjoy tearing Maul the pieces.

In truth, he likely could have ended this duel a long time ago, but he’s having so much _fun_ stringing Sidious’ Apprentice along. The man likely even believes he has a chance of getting out of this encounter alive, if the arrogant curl to his lips is anything to go by. Finally striking the Zabrak down, finally getting revenge for Qui-Gon and Satine all the others, it’s going to be—

“Master!”

Anakin’s panicked cry cuts through the haze of bloodlust, the boy’s emotions suddenly flooding their Bond, which Ben had blocked off in the heat of battle. He couldn’t have Anakin’s volatile emotions distracting him in combat with Maul. Now, however, he’s nearly overrun by the fear and pain and desperation that echoes through the mental link, and Ben spares a glance away from Maul long enough to see his Apprentice thrashing in Dooku’s grip on the other side of the clearing.

He is, or course, aware that Anakin had joined the fray at some point. He’d sensed Dooku approaching, felt Anakin’s alarm through the muted Bond, and trusted that his Apprentice, his partner, would have his back. When no attack from the elder Jedi had come, Ben correctly assumed that Anakin had interfered. He just hadn’t considered on the possibility that Anakin could _lose_.

In hindsight, it’s foolish. Of course Anakin could lose. Dooku was one of the best swordsman to ever pick up a lightsaber even before his fall to the Sith in their original timeline; he bested them countless times in combat during the extant of the Clone Wars. Even though Anakin had defeated him in the end, this Dooku is over a decade younger than the man they encountered over the course of the Wars.  He’s stronger, faster, more agile—and currently dragging Ben’s Apprentice toward the lowered ramp of the Jedi freighter, at the top of which Padawan Kenobi shuffles about, clearly anxious to get Anakin on board and get going.

A blow that Ben feels echoed in his own skull stops Anakin’s struggling, silences the Bond, and suddenly killing Maul is far less high on his list of priorities than it was even a minute ago.

The Dark Side is screaming in his ear that if he doesn’t get to Anakin _right now_ , he’s liable to never see his Apprentice again, and Ben can’t have that happen. Ben can’t tolerate the _thought_ of having that happen—of having Anakin wrenched from his grip when he just got him back. When the Force has taken it upon itself to deliver his former padawan, his Apprentice, his _everything_ back into his arms after twenty years of estrangement.

The next time Maul gives him an opening, Ben does not allow it to go unmissed, raking his ‘saber across the Apprentice’s torso and relishing in the pained howl the Zabrak lets out as he slumps to the ground. The voice in the back of Ben’s mind is saying _too shallow, he’s not dead, he’s going to get away_ ¸ but Ben is already running for freighter. Maul can wait; Anakin cannot.

“Anakin!” Ben shouts, knowing it will do no good but feeling the need to call out anyways.

He’s too far away. Dooku’s already almost to the bottom of the ramp and he’s still got ground to cover. They’re going to _take Anakin_ and they’re going to _keep him from Ben_ all because of that stupid Prophecy and Ben’s own stupid decision to fall and—

Lightning sparks at his fingertips. It’s peculiar sensation, a power he’d figured he would have to work at, but he’s not going to question this gift. If the Dark Side is going to allow him this, he’s certainly going to take advantage of it. Ben skids to a halt, plants his feet, and _throws_ the power he feels thrumming in his veins. It arcs through the air, crackling and blue and wonderful, finding its target unerringly.

Dooku seizes with the lightning’s contact, muscles spasming as electricity courses through him. Anakin, too, suffers its effects, but this cannot be helped. Ben can make it up to him later. What’s important is that Dooku stops moving forward, drops like a stone and takes Anakin with him. Sprawled out on the Dathomirian earth, there’s no way Anakin is going anywhere but right back with Ben where he belongs.

“Master Dooku!” Padawan Kenobi yelps, scrambling down the ramp as Ben puts on an extra burst of speed.

They reach their fallen comrades at almost the same time, both Kenobi’s dropping to their knees to gather up their respective teammates and check them over. Anakin and Dooku still twitch weakly in the after-effects of Ben’s lightning, but it will stop in time. Obi-Wan shakes at the Jedi Master’s shoulder, trying to wake him; Ben runs a hand through Anakin’s hair, snarling when it comes away bloody from the blow Dooku dealt. Other than the obvious injuries, however, neither seems to have befallen additional harm.

Ben can’t help the way he falters in gathering Anakin to him when Padawan Kenobi’s eyes alight on the ring of bruises that curl around Anakin’s throat, accusing gaze flickering between it and the Sith Master. The Padawan’s lip curls in contempt. It’s an expression Ben knows well; it’s an expression he’d worn many times during his Padawan years, before he’d taken on Anakin and been forced to look at the world beyond the narrow scope he’d been raised in.

“You’re a monster,” Obi-Wan sneers, holding the elder’s golden eyes in challenge.

And Ben supposes that yes, in the eyes of this much younger self, who still has his Master and his innocence and his heart in one piece, he must look like quite the hideous creature. This younger self hasn’t had to cut his own Padawn braid, hasn’t had to care for a child when he could barely care for himself, hasn’t watched everyone he loved die, and if Ben has his way, he’ll never have to. Ben will happily play the villain of this story, if only to spare this boy the pain.

The Padawan doesn’t try to stop him from scooping Anakin into his arms, knowing better than to start a physical altercation with a Sith Master when there’s no one capable of backing him up. Ben holds the Obi-Wan’s gaze as he stands, averting it for only a heartbeat to brush a stray curl from Anakin’s forehead, then turns his attention back to the crouching Padawan. “You’ll understand, one day, why I’m doing this.”

“Don’t count on it,” Kenobi growls.

Ben flashes him a smile, almost pitying, then turns away, beginning the trek back to the _Negotiator_.

Maul has long since vanished into the Dathomirian wilderness, a trail of blood into the underbrush the only sign that he was ever there.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned Vader using Ataru during his first fight with Adelfos on Ilum. That should have been Shien, and I have since gone back and corrected it. In case you haven't seen it, though, I thought I'd leave a note, as Obi-Wan mentions it in this chapter.

There is a vein visibly pulsing on Mace Windu’s forehead. Obi-Wan would like nothing more in this moment than to throw himself out of the Council Chamber’s panoramic windows; Mace looks like he’d help him right along, if asked. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), the two are surrounded by a ring of Jedi Counselors who would be quite perturbed if Obi-Wan took a flying leap into Coruscant’s sky-traffic. After all, without him, who would there be to report about their disastrous mission to Dathomir?

Not Dooku, who’s been confined to the Halls of Healing, barred even from debriefing until the Masters there can determine whether or not he’ll suffer any lingering effects from Adelfos’ lightning. Certainly not Qui-Gon, who’s being fussed over by half a dozen Mind Healers as they rebuild the man’s shattered shields piece by piece and try to draw him from his comatose state. Which leaves poor Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi to face down the entirety of the Jedi Council and try explain to them how his team managed to return from a peaceful, information-gathering assignment with two injured Masters, only the vaguest details of an ancient Sith prophecy, and the lingering stink of the Dark Side.

This is his life now, apparently.

“Let me get this straight,” Windu once again sighs, and Obi-Wan braces for impact.

Why is there never a homicidal, lightsaber-wielding maniac when you need one?

_

Afterwards, after hours of questions and insinuations and vaguely-veiled insults, Obi-Wan trudges to the Halls of Healing with a sense of déjà vu. A mission gone south at the hands of the Sith, a humiliating Council meeting, a trip to the Halls. He almost expects another surprise to be awaiting him, but there is none to be found when he arrives. Qui-Gon is as still and silent as he was when the Healers collected him from the freighter upon their return to Coruscant. Sinking into a chair set out beside the man’s cot, Obi-Wan briefly considers going to check on Master Dooku. It is, after all, his fault that the man was injured. It was his plan to try and capture Vader. Once he’s sitting, though, he doesn’t think he has the strength to get up again.

A hand settles unexpectedly on his shoulder, and he starts at the contact. Looking over his shoulder, he’s met with the face of Bant Eerin, an old friend from his days in the crèche. The Mon Calamari smiles softly down at him before pulling up her own chair beside him.

“How is he?” Obi-Wan asks, voice unexpectedly hoarse.

While Bant is technically Kit Fisto’s padawan, she has always held an interest in Healing and can often be found in the Halls in her spare hours, learning its tricks. It’s come in handy more than once on their joint missions.

“Mostly the same,” she sighs. “The Masters are working on rebuilding his shields, but it’s a slow process. And then there’s the Bond…”

“What Bond?”

“One of the Masters found an unexpected Bond when they were working. They think Qui-Gon might have suffered from a powerful emotional transference through it, which would explain his episode. They can’t be sure until he wakes, however, and explains what he experienced.”

“Have they severed it?” Obi-Wan huffs, disgruntled by the idea of his Master sharing a Bond with someone other than his Padawan. It’d be unorthodox, even for a renegade Jedi such as Qui-Gon.

“No,” Bant admits, “they haven’t. A few of the Masters wanted to, thought it might help him wake faster, but the rest are hesitant. They don’t know who it ties him to, or if Master Jinn was even aware of its existence, so they don’t want to take the risk. His mind could interpret cutting it as further attack, and make it even more difficult to wake him.”

“Can that happen? Bond just spontaneously forming? We were always taught they were something you had to work for—that it required consent from both parties for a Bond to solidify.”

“It’s very rare, but the Masters say it can happen. There’s a reason Master-Padawan pairs are separated by Healers instead of doing it themselves; bonds are finicky. When improperly severed, especially in a powerful Force-user, they may unconsciously reach out for a way to fill the gap and tie themselves to any compatible mind they touch. Usually, any pre-existing, consensual Bond would prevent this from happening unless agreed upon by both members of the pair, but for whatever reason, your and Qui-Gon’s Bond has tolerated the intrusion.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says.

It doesn’t take long for Bant to realize she’s said the wrong thing. “It doesn’t say anything about your Bond,” she backpedals, eyes wide. “It just—ugh. I knew I should have let one of the Masters explain this to you.”

Obi-Wan chuckles weakly. “It’s ok, Bant. I understand what you’re trying to say.” At her heaved sigh of relief, he adds, “Master Jinn has been experiencing frequent nightmares over the last few weeks. He hadn’t had any before that I can recall—not as bad as these. He didn’t want to talk about them, so I didn’t say anything. Do you think that could have something to do with this Bond as well?”

“It could,” she hums. “If they are tied to it, it could give us an idea of when it formed. Could help us figure out just who’s lurking on the other end, at least.”

Whatever comfort Obi-Wan may have found in knowing that his Master’s terrible nightmares may have an explainable cause fly out the window with that last sentence. “They—they started just after our trip to Malachor. After our first encounter with Lord Vader,” he admits.

“Oh,” Bant squeaks, and an awkward silence falls between them. News of the Sith has spread throughout the Order now. It’s likely even the younglings know of Obi-Wan’s recent run-ins with the pair of Darksiders. The Mon Calamari pushes herself to her feet. “I… should probably go report this to the Masters.”

“Yeah. Ok.”

Bant puts her hand on his shoulder again, squeezing it in an attempt at reassurance. “It’ll be ok, Obi-Wan,” she says, but her voice lacks any real conviction.

He gives her a weary smile anyways, and then she pads from the room, leaving him alone again. Dropping his head in his hands, the padawan attempts to blink back the tears that sting at his eyes. He’s unsuccessful at controlling the hitch in his breath.

“Oh, Force, Master,” he whispers. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

__

It’s a full week before Qui-Gon wakes.

Obi-Wan splits his time between the Halls of Healing and the training rooms. In the Halls, he lingers at Qui-Gon’s side, on the small cot the Healers have brought into the room for him. He does his lesson work, excused from physically attending classes in light of current circumstances, or he meditates. He doesn’t see their apartment except to shower and change. The Healers think his physical proximity might help Qui-Gon’s mind feel safe—might help him wake faster. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything, in Obi-Wan’s opinion. Qui-Gon doesn’t seem to be any closer to regaining consciousness than he was when they brought him in, despite the reassurances that he is getting better.

For the first three days in the training halls, he runs drills. Obi-Wan runs drills until he’s shaking and weak in the knees—spars anyone who will accept his challenges. With three known Sith Lords out there—maybe even four, as they usually come in pairs—he needs to be at the top of his game. He can’t rely on Qui-Gon or Dooku to protect him every time they cross paths with the Sith, especially since two out of their three encounters happened when Obi-Wan was alone. He needs to be able to defend himself, should the need arise. The point is driven forcefully home when Dooku is released from the healing halls on the third day and immediately shipped back out to the Outer Rim, likely in punishment for their failure on Dathomir. He’s unhappy about it, wanting to stay until Qui-Gon wakes, but Obi-Wan promises he’ll com when his Master is finally well.

On the fourth day, he finds himself dropping into the unfamiliar opening stance of Soresu.

Obi-Wan learned the basics of the third form during his initiate days, but he hasn’t worked with it since he became Qui-Gon’s student. His Master has a preference for Ataru, and Obi-Wan had followed suit, his small, lean stature giving him the benefit of the natural agility required for the Fourth Form. The Third Form is a defensive form—the counterpoint Vader’s aggressive Fifth. The Jedi like to preach that the Third Form is the most passive, that it appeals the most to the Jedi philosophy of peace, but Obi-Wan doesn’t see it that way. To him, Soresu speaks of patience, of cunning. It is the form of a predator willing to wait out their opponent until the perfect opportunity arises, like wolves that chase their prey to exhaustion and strike only when it’s too weak to fight back. Obi-wan runs through its steps slowly, relying on muscle memories he hasn’t used since his youth, stumbling occasionally over the complicated footwork.

The Masters that train Initiates in ‘saber-form often say that one can learn much about their opponent simply through the Form they choose to utilize in combat. Vader is as powerful and abrasive as his chosen Shien. He charges in, sometimes recklessly, and can be counted on to be straightforward in his actions. The purpose of Shien, after all, is victory through strength. That Adelfos uses the Third Form worries Obi-Wan. It can almost be guaranteed that they’re missing something—that the Sith Master’s careful footwork and apparent passivity is masking a greater purpose that they won’t see coming until it’s far too late to stop it.

“Taking an interest in the defensive arts, are we?” A voice interrupts, and Obi-Wan turns to see Master Koon hovering in the doorway. While he hasn’t interacted much with the Kel Dor Master outside of the Council chambers, he has a reputation for being quite friendly. It’s probably the only reason Obi-Wan doesn’t run screaming at having been caught by a councilor practicing a form favored by a Sith Master.

“I was just… thinking.”

“You mentioned in your report that Soresu is favored by one of the Sith you’ve encountered.”

“…Yes…” Obi-Wan mutters, staring at the floor until a hand settles suddenly on his shoulder, forcing his gazes back up to the Master’s.

Koon’s gaze is soft when he asks, “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“I’ve already made my report to the Council.”

“I’m not asking for the Council, Padawan,” Koon sighs, releasing him and taking a step back. “It’s become apparent that this is bothering you. You need to speak with someone—to release these emotions to the Force before they get the best of you.”

“Is that all?” Obi-Wan asks skeptically.

“No,” Koon admits after a brief hesitation. “I am asking for myself as well. Obi-Wan… the Council has decided that, once your Master wakes, they will be removing you from the investigation into the Sith.”

“What!?” The Padawan yelps.

Koon looks pained, but continues. “It has become apparent that this assignment is too dangerous for a Master-Padawan pair.” Obi-Wan opens his mouth to argue, but Koon cuts him off. “ _Especially_ you and your Master. The Sith appear to have fixated on you—targeted you. Already you and Qui-Gon, as well as Master Dooku, have been injured in your altercations. They will be turning the assignment over to me, and you two will be remaining planetside until further notice.”

“But… we know them best of anyone...”

“I know. Which is why I ask if you would be willing to talk to me about it. I need to know if you left anything out of your report; I need to know what I’m up against. Anything you say will be kept between you and I.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head vehemently. “I’ve told the Council everything I know, Master Koon. It’s like I said: I don’t think Vader poses an immediate threat to the Jedi. That being said, Adelfos is definitely dangerous—both to us and to Vader. He’s smart, very skilled, and not afraid to hurt people to get what he wants.” The Padawan grimaces at the memories of their last mission. “You’ll need to be careful around him.”

Koon’s eyes scrunch up on what is probably a smile behind his regulator. “Thank you, Padawan,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased despite the fact that Obi-Wan has told him next to nothing that he doesn’t already know. He assumes the Master is just happy he was willing to talk to him, after finding out they’re going to be taken off the investigation.

“Oh, Master Koon!” He calls after the Kel Dor, who has turned to exit the hall.

“Hm?”

“I just remembered something. Vader, when we first met, he introduced himself with another name: Anakin Skywalker. I don’t know if it will help, but I figure you should have it, anyways.”

The Master thanks him again, and then Obi-Wan is alone. He briefly considers going back to his training, but decides against it. It’s nearing dinnertime, anyways, and the Healers will want him back with Qui-Gon soon.

__

Anakin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, reaching out to the Force and drawing it to him. It’s easier to maintain the center, now, that Ben used to preach about in their youth; maybe there’s something to that meditation business after all. The Force answers him, as it always does, and he shows it what he wants. He can feel the brush of Ben’s mind against his own when he reaches a bit too far, the shielding his Master has placed around the apartment keeping them hidden from Sidious and allowing him to relax his own. No matter—he trusts the man’s shield to hold, and returns his attention to the task at hand.

When Anakin cracks open an eye, a delighted smile breaks across his face and he leaps to his feet.

“Master!” The Apprentice calls, leaping to his feet and stumbling from the main room to Ben’s, a mixture of excitement and exhaustion making him clumsy. He’s been at this particular task all night. “Ben! Look what I did!”

The man in question is asleep when Anakin barges into the room, slumped over a desk littered with holopads and blueprints, snoring softly. He’s dressed in loose pajama pants similar to Anakin’s own, though has foregone the shirt in the privacy of his own quarters, exposing the scar that marks the circumference of his neck to the cool, night air. The clock on the desk would inform any interested party that the hour is still quite early, and that the older Sith would likely prefer to be left to sleep for a while longer. Unfortunately for Ben, Anakin is not an interested party and pays no mind to the time nor his Master’s state of undress.

“Master? Master! Ben!” Anakin shakes his companion’s shoulder until he drags the man from sleep. Golden eyes peer up at him from beneath an auburn fringe, sleep-mussed hair fallen over his forehead in the night. There are deep bags under Ben’s eyes from countless restless nights, but they are lesser than when Anakin first encountered him. He hasn’t woken to the man’s screaming since their return from Dathomir; clearly Anakin’s proximity is helping.

“—n’kin?” Ben slurs, blinking blearily up at his Apprentice. “What is it?”

“I did it!”

The Master groans unhappily, but allows Anakin to drag him from the chair and out of the room. “Did what?”

“I can’t believe it worked! I mean, it took me _all night_ but I actually managed to do it!”

Anakin steers his Master into the living space, and parks him before the seating area he’d been meditating in earlier. Ben’s eyes go wide in alarm, and a horrified sound slips past his lips unnoticed by his Apprentice, who takes in the scene before them with glowing pride.

Inky black tendrils, physical manifestations of the power of the Dark Side, wiggle and writhe around the space. Ben’s notes are scattered across the floor, wrinkled from Anakin’s handling. One armchair lays in pieces, fabric shredded and stuffing spilling out, and Anakin’s Force tendrils are happily beginning to tear into the upholstery of the second.

“Aren’t they _great_?” Anakin breathes, eyes wide and reverent as he observes the destruction.

“Anakin!” Ben yelps, apparently not find the boy’s creations as awe-inspiring as Anakin had hoped. Ben reaches out with a hand, and Anakin feels his Master’s presence move with it, brushing over the tendrils and dispersing their power back into the Force. When Anakin was a Padawan going into Knighthood, it used to bother him that Ben had retained some measure of control over him, even after their Master-Padawan bond had developed into something more fraternal. Now, it’s just a fact of life that Ben can put a stop to his increasingly frequent experiments.

Anakin watches his creations dissolve with a pout. “Master! It took me all night to make those!”

Ben scowls at the mess of their living space, and then scowls at Anakin. “If you didn’t want me to destroy them, you shouldn’t have allowed them to eat my furniture.”

Following several rigorous healing sessions upon their return to Coruscant to repair the damage done by Ben’s lightning, Anakin had taken to proper Dark Side training as well as he’d taken to Jedi teachings in his youth. On one hand, it was a promising start to their eventual plan to kill Sidious. On the other, it had quickly led to incidents such as these, where Anakin, growing more fluent in the Sith language thanks to their daily lessons, had gotten into his Master’s records on Sith magic and decided to experiment unsupervised. Ben will not speak of the boy’s attempt at necromancy, even under pain of death. He is still finding bits and pieces of the creature scattered through the apartment.

“You’re no fun,” Anakin grouses, watching his Master examine the ruined furniture.

“Just… clean this mess up,” Ben sighs, sounding pained, and scrubs a hand down his face. “I’ll make us breakfast.”

While his Master pads into the kitchen, Anakin goes in search of a broom. Ben does not have a cleaning droid—a heinous sin in the Apprentice’s opinion. He’ll remedy this fact eventually, even if he has to build one himself. He does not find cleaning nearly as cathartic as Ben does.

Halfway through sweeping up the mess his experiments made of the sitting area, the smell of something burning wafts in from the kitchen, followed by a string of colorful obscenities and the clattering of pots and pans.

Another thing Ben lacks is any sort of talent in the kitchen.

The Apprentice sighs and returns to his sweeping, contenting himself with the prospect of cold cereal for breakfast and a moody Master for the rest of the day. Maybe he should have just let the man sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In their fic, [Interrupted Transmissions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7391554) (which you should totally read), LovecraftianHorror brought up the rad subject of sith magic, which was something I didn't even know existed until then and thought was really awesome??? I hope you don't mind that i'm borrowing it???
> 
> PS i'm serious go read that fic it's obianidala and so great ya'll.


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tattooinian Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter done over the weekend, but I had to go out of town for a wedding and my shitty hotel didn't have complimentary wifi??? Lmao??? So it's 1:30 AM and I just rolled in the door, but I've been dying to post this chapter so here it is.

The transport rumbles over the endless sands of Tattooine, carrying its cargo from the bustling marketplaces of Mos Eisley to the halls of the Hutt palace. Its occupants shift restlessly, bound and chained in long, even lines, clad only in the barest of scraps. The heat of twin suns has turned the belly of the transport into a veritable furnace, the stench of sweat and unclean permeating the air. A representation of races as variable as on any other world can be found here, from the twi-lek’s colorful pigments to the more simple hues of human skin. The range of their ages is almost as vast, if not for the notable lack of the elderly. The insinuation of their fates turns Plo Koon’s stomach.

The Kel Dor Master hadn’t planned for his day to end like this when he followed a tip about the whereabouts of Vader and Adelfos to this Force-forsaken dustbowl. He’d planned to land, take a cursory look around, and head back to Coruscant. Surely the tip had been a mistake. After all, what would the Sith be doing so far into the Outer Rim? And on such an inconsequential planet?

Of course, it hadn’t gone quite so smoothly. Jumped by slavers before he could get his guard up, he’d found himself drugged, cuffed, and shuffled aboard the transport before he’d even gotten the chance to seek out his informant and follow up on the information he’d been given. What’s more, once his head ceased to spin long enough to fully take in his situation, he’d found himself shackled to a human male that matched Padawan Kenobi’s description of the Sith Master, Darth Adelfos, to a tee.

He is unsure which of them is more alarmed by this turn of events.

Adelfos watches him with apparent passivity, but there is a wariness in his golden eyes that tells Koon that the Sith Master knows exactly who he is—proof of the strange foreknowledge that Obi-Wan claimed the Sith possessed. The man’s naturally pale complexion is flushed from the temperature, the beginnings of a sunburn turning his nose and the tips of his ears a rosy pink. Though he’s dressed in light tans and whites more appropriate for the climate than the darker tones preferred by Dark Side users, sweat pours liberally down his face, soaking the neckline of his tunic.

Adelfos is wearing gloves—a curious fashion choice out in the desert. It suggests that he’s concerned about leaving his prints behind. He would only be so if he’s in a database somewhere, which lifts the Jedi’s spirits despite their situation. Even if Adelfos escapes—when he escapes—Plo will have a greater chance of identifying him now that he knows there’s information on him waiting to be discovered. He is not so foolish as to believe he will be able to apprehend the man this time, when he is so unprepared.

“I must confess, Lord Adelfos,” Plo finally says, breaking the tense silence between them, “I did not expect to meet you under such unusual circumstances.”

“Nor I, Master Koon,” the Sith replies. “I expected Padawan Kenobi and Master Jinn to be sent after us again. You are a surprise.”

“The Council has decided it best to remove the Jinn-Kenobi pair from the investigation into you and your Apprentice, in light of Master Jinn’s recent injury.” Something like guilt flickers across Adelfos’ face, but it’s gone before Koon can blink, wiped away into a smooth mask of neutrality. “Where is young Anakin, anyhow?”

The Sith stiffens at the mention of what Plo Koon now knows to be the Apprentice’s given name, eyes narrowing as though trying to puzzle out how the Jedi came by the information. “He’ll be around,” Adelfos says ominously.

Though he and Adelfos are exchanging words, the Sith’s attention has begun to stray from the Jedi at his side. Instead, he is watching a woman and her child a row over. The child is crying, waving his small fists in the air in a tantrum that, while out of character for a Jedi youngling, could be expected in a toddler of the general populous. The mother is young, so young, as she strokes him and murmurs soft words in attempt to soothe. Their jailers are eyeing her with promise of retribution, should the racket continue much longer.

The longer the child wails, the more riled Adelfos becomes. Gloved hands clench and unclench in their shackles, and his eyes do not waver from the child’s small form. One of the slavers stomps down the aisle, stopping before the woman and delivering a firm warning to _shut that kid up, or we’re leaving him for the Raisers_. It draws a low growl from the Sith Master, inaudible but for Plo’s enhanced Jedi senses, and the man’s lip curls, baring teeth. The child is obviously Force-sensitive—and powerful at that. Plo is honestly surprised no passing Jedi had noticed him, considering how brightly he shines. His distress reaches out to them, brushing against Plo’s mind as well as Adefos’. The Jedi finds it curious, however, that it seems to be having such a strong effect on his Sith companion.

“Excuse me,” Adelfos finally calls, startling both the woman and Koon when he draws her attention. He reaches out, despite his manacled hands, toward the boy. “May I try?”

The mother eyes him warily, as all mothers might at the approach of a strange man, but there must be something Plo can’t see in Adelfos’ eyes, because she hesitantly disentangles the child from her and passes him to the Sith.

Adelfos is quick to snatch him up, cradling the thrashing child to his chest with surprisingly sure hands. Soft sounds rumble from the Sith’s chest as he carefully rocks the boy the best he can within the confines of their bindings. “It’s alright,” he whispers, rubbing soothing circles into the child’s back. Plo can feel him reaching out in the Force, attempting to soothe the boy’s distress that way, too. The feeling of the Sith’s presence inadvertently brushing against the Jedi’s shields is like being dunked in the flow of a frigid river; he shivers at the sensation.

The child doesn’t seem to mind, however, slowly quieting in the man’s grip. Adelfos releases a pleased sigh when the boy finally slumps against him, succumbing to the exhaustion following his tantrum and drifting off into sleep. There is a strange fondness in his eyes as he runs careful fingers though sandy blond hair, murmuring softly.

“So young, and already causing trouble. Leia was quite a fussy child as well in those first few days, you know. I never got to know if she grew out of it, but I felt sorry for her parents when she was finally well enough to leave. Not Luke, though, thank the Force. I don’t know how I would have managed, if he was…”

“You’re quite good at that, Lord Adelfos,” Koon observes, voice carefully quiet to avoid disturbing the boy again.

“I’ve had practice,” the Sith responds, gaze shifting from the child to his mother. She’s watching them through eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but clearly Adelfos’ display has dulled any lingering wariness, and she, too, is slowly dropping off. A soft smile twitches at the Sith’s lips. “And you may call me Ben, Master Koon.”

“Ben,” Plo tries, tasting the name on his tongue. It’s certainly less of a mouthful than _Lord Adelfos_ —surprisingly simple for such a complicated man. “Do you have a last name?”

The Sith smirks. “Not that I’ll tell you.”

“Of course,” the Jedi chuckles. “Can’t be giving away too many secrets at once.”

“Secrets are the way of the Sith, after all.”

“Even so,” Plo says, suddenly solemn, “names have power, Ben. Why would you choose to give me yours? Why not Padawan Kenobi or Master Jinn?”

The Sith’s eyes flick up from where they’d settled back on the sleeping child, meeting Koon’s own as he speaks. “The relationship I share with Jinn and Kenobi is different from the relationship I share with you. I have much respect for you, and for your methods. I would like to consider us equals—as much as we can be, standing on opposite sides of the Force.”

“Oh,” Koon breathes. “You may call me Plo, then.”

Ben smiles. “Thank you, Plo.”

“Thank you, Ben.”

The transport rumbles on.

_

Plo isn’t sure how long they’ve been travelling, has never set foot on this planet before, but he assumes they must be nearing their destination, if the rising agitation of their keepers is anything to measure by. They’d settled for a time earlier, after Ben had quieted the child, but now they’re up and about again, speaking in hushed, harsh tones and making rounds, occasionally tugging on chains to make certain their prisoners are still secure.

At Plo’s side, Ben seems to have sunken into meditation. The Jedi can feel the man’s mind humming as he communes with the Force, though he can’t make out any distinct thoughts due to Ben’s impressive mental shields. A nudge with his elbow draws them man back into the present, and Ben glances questioningly over at him.

“I do believe we should be making our escape shortly,” Plo murmurs, voice pitched low that their captors will not overhear.

“Escape?” Ben snorts, and the sly grin that stretches across his face makes the Jedi’s stomach fip-flop in apprehension. The Force whispers in his ear. _Danger_ , it says, _that smile means danger_.  “I don’t know about you, Plo, but I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Ben cocks his head, listening to something that Plo can’t hear over the Force’s shouted warnings, already finding himself tensing before the Sith wraps one arm tighter around the child on his lap and announces, “Brace yourself.”

The transport lurches to one side with an ear-splitting shriek sending the slavers that were on their feet tumbling to the floor. There’s a brush of the Force against their wrists and the binders holding them unlock, clattering noisily to the floor. The pair leap to their feet when the sound draws the attention of their captors, one of them shouting and drawing a blaster. Slaves scream, trying to scramble out of the line of fire, but are hindered by their chains. He isn’t a threat for long, however. With a sharp gesture from Ben, there is a _tug_ in the Force, and the man’s head is wrenched sideways with a sickening _crack_. The slaver falls limp, the glow of his life extinguished between one heartbeat and the next, and Plo thinks he might be sick as the Dark Side roils around them. The rest of the slavers have raced from the cargo bay, seeking out the source of a commotion coming from above and abandoning their coworker to his fate.

Awoken by the crash and sudden commotion, the child in Ben’s arms is crying again. Its mother is growing increasingly distressed as well, but Ben pays neither any mind. Instead, he stomps over to the body of their jailer, kneeling and rustling through his pockets with his free hand. Drawing a small device from the corpse’s possession, a pressed button releases the manacles that bind the remainder of the slaves. They stare at their freed wrists in disbelief, and the boy’s mother throws herself at Ben to collect her distressed son. For a moment, Plo thinks the man might fight her about it, but then Ben is handing the child over.

Footsteps descending into the cargo bay, and all eyes turn to watch their newest arrival. Anakin Skywalker bounds into the room, lightsaber drawn and slightly out of breath. A grin stretches across the boy’s face, heedless of the blood smeared across his skin and robes. As he does not appear to be injured, Plo assumes it must belong to the rest of the slaver crew.

“Master!” The boy chirps, striding across the room, scattering slaves in his wake. He is quite an intimidating sight, even if he’s bearing no tell-tale signs of aggression. “And Master Koon, what a surprise.”

“Lord Vader,” Plo acknowledges with a polite dip of his head. It’s not like he can be anything less than compliant, as he is currently outnumbered and unarmed.

“The _slavers_ ,” he snarls the word like it’s something he scraped off the bottom of his boots, “have been taken care of. I’ve corrected our course; should be a few hours before we reach the nearest spaceport. Figured you’d want this back.”

With his free hand, the Sith Apprentice unhooks another lightsaber hilt from his belt and passes it to Ben. The elder takes it with a smile. “Thank you, my Apprentice.”

Vader’s eyes flicker to the woman next, who is still hovering nearby. He makes the same soft, fond expression Ben had worn earlier, much to Plo’s befuddlement “Hi,” he says, “I’m Darth Vader.”

“I’m Shmi,” she hesitantly responds.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shmi. Would you like to get out of here?”

The young woman looks around at her fellow slaves, cowering together on the far side of the cargo bay, watching the strangers with wide, fearful eyes. The Sith radiate power, danger, and Plo is not surprised at their wariness. These are a people with intuitive knowledge of the chain of command, and Ben radiates an authority that could bring any man to his knees. Plo wonders what they see when they look at him.

“What about them?” Shmi asks.

“They will be coming with us, as well” Ben announces, and then the Sith Master is sweeping across the room and up to the levels above. Anakin flashes an apologetic grin for his Master’s sudden departure, and turns to address the cowering slaves. Shmi remains at Vader’s side, and Plo decides to follow Ben to the upper levels.

The floors of the halls above are littered with the bodies of slavers. They lie motionless, eyes glazed and empty. The lucky ones are whole, with neat, circular burns through their chest; the unlucky lay in pieces, torn limb from limb by some undefinable force, blood pooling around their mutilated corpses and splashed upon the walls. A severed arm here, a leg there. One man lays bisected, his head and chest leans again the wall, spilling viscera out onto the cold durasteel, while his hips and legs lie across the hall from him. This is the madness of Sith—carnage wrought through rage and hatred. For all the compassion Ben and his Apprentice seem to have for the unfortunate victims of Tattooine’s bustling slave trade, they have slaughtered their keepers like animals.

A flash of silver catches Koon’s eye as he walks, directing his attention to a beheaded corpse. Spilling from the man’s pockets is a familiar circle cylinder: his lightsaber. He scoops up the weapon, feeling lingering nerves settle with its weight in his palm, and scrubs the slaver’s smeared blood off onto a corner of his robes.

Properly armed, he now stands a chance against the Sith, who have thus far been strangely tolerant of his presence. Without a firm knowledge of their plans, he’d been forced to play along until opportunity to escape presented itself. The Force, however, has granted him something better; it has given him the chance to apprehend the men responsible for this slaughter. Anakin is below, tending to the slaves, leaving Ben alone. There is no way of telling which Sith killed these men—whether they died in Vader’s initial assault or were picked off by Adelfos on his way back through. Does it matter, though? Plo tightens his grip around his lightsaber, and goes in search of the Sith Master.

Ben stands with his back to Plo on the topmost level of the slave transport. It’s likely meant to be a viewing deck; the Tattooinian suns beat down upon them and the wind whips at their robes. Plo approaches slowly, thumbing his blue ‘saber on, but making no move to attack until Ben acknowledges him.

“I told you earlier that I respected your methods,” Ben says, finally turning to face his opponent. “That you would not attack a man with his back turns speaks measures about your character.”

There is something unearthly about the Sith as he stand there, sunlight catching in his auburn hair and setting it alight, like a halo of fire. Golden eyes glow, and there is a universe behind them. How can eyes so old belong to a face so young? Ben’s ‘saber ignites in a pillar of white light, and he falls into the opening steps of Soresu.

“Shall we, Master Koon?”

They lunge.

_

It ends much the same as Obi-Wan and Dooku’s engagements with Sith ended. They are both breathing heavily, lightsabers locked together at the edge of the platform. It takes all of Plo’s strength to hold the Sith off—to keep from toppling backwards over the railing and down into the sand below. Their eyes lock over the glow of their weapons, blue on white, and Ben gives him a sad kind of smile.

“I told you that I respected you,” Ben says again, “and I meant it. You are a good man, Plo Koon, but you are not _necessary._ There is so much you and your Order don’t know, and I won’t tolerate further interference in my plans. Please, Plo,” there’s something in his voice that is almost pleading, and for a heartbeat, the Jedi thinks he sees blue in those eyes. “Stay out of it.”

With a final, Force-assisted shove, the Jedi Master is shoved backwards, over the railing, and sent falling to the sands below.

The transport carries them away, leaving Plo Koon to pick himself up and follow their trail through the desert on foot. By the time he reaches town, they will be long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben, put that child back where it came from or so help me god.


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is murder in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everybody who commented on the last chapter??? I don't know where all of you came from, but it completely blindsided me and I'm still working through replying to you all lmao. Thank you. Your support means a lot.
> 
> This chapter is shorter than my usual, but I've had a busy weekend so I hope you'll forgive me.

They encounter him on a pleasure planet deep in the Outer Rim. In need of supplies, Ben and his Apprentice touch down on one of those planets where sentients of all species come and go, seeking everything and nothing. This is his sector, they know it is, but the chances of stumbling upon Jedi Knight Pong Krell in the seedy, smoke-filled cantina they’d stopped in for a drink had been so slim that they’d thought nothing of it until the Besalisk’s laughter cut through the ambient music.

He sits at the bar, his back to their booth, left arms wrapped around a Twi’Lek woman who appears to want to be anywhere else and the right holding his drinks. Krell’s twin saberstaffs hang from his belt, their unspoken threat likely the only reason his female companion hasn’t rebuffed his advances and gone off in search of a more suitable companion for the evening. For his part, Krell hasn’t seemed to notice her discomfort—or if he has, he just doesn’t care. Either way, he makes for a very pathetic sight, clinging to an obviously unwilling woman and downing drinks like a fish.

Ben and Anakin have garnered their own appreciative stares throughout the evening. No one has dared to approach them, however. Anakin has curled himself into Ben’s side, more for the purposes of disguise than any real need to distinguish himself as _unavailable_ (he can certainly handle unwanted suitors alone), and a sharp look from the Master is enough to send any who gawk too long at the tableau they make fleeing from the danger behind his eyes.

The elder Sith is quite pleased with this turn of events, if he must say so himself. Ben lounges contentedly in the booth, reveling in the burn of the liquor as he swallows and the fog of the Dark Side that thrives in these places. Lust and greed and jealousy—emotion runs rampant on pleasure planets, feeding the power of the Dark and, in turn, the Sith. In this moment he has a good drink, he has strength unmatched, he has his Apprentice, and he has the Jedi Knight in his sights. What more could a Sith Master ask for?

Anakin does not seem to share his outlook, tense as a bowstring as he stares down Pong Krell. The Knight is too caught up in regaling his unappreciative audience to notice the Apprentice glaring daggers, but Ben can feel the way the man trembles against him, rage threatening to boil over. He runs a hand down Anakin’s back, and feels muscle twitch at the contact. Anakin is a hound that’s caught scent and is waiting for permission to give chase. Ben isn’t feeling particularly inclined to stop him.

Neither had been present when the Pong Krell of their first life turned on the 501st. Ben was with the 212th, fighting for his life beside his men, and Anakin had been shipped back to Coruscant at emergency summons from the Senate. They hadn’t been present to witness their men fighting for their lives against a man supposed to protect them, but they both saw the fallout. They received the casualty reports, testified at Dogma’s trial, had to work so hard to regain the trust of soldiers who’d never before been given reason to doubt their Generals. And Ben was as much their General as Anakin had been, just as the 212th saw Anakin as a leader whose standing was equal to Ben’s own. It was what made them such a successful fleet; there was no hostility between battalions because, as far as the clones were concerned, they were all on the same team. The attack on Anakin’s men was just as much an attack on Ben’s, and he looks forward to giving a backstabber like Krell exactly what he deserves.

Reaching along the Bond, Ben brushes against Anakin’s mind in unspoken permission. The Apprentice butts his head gently against Ben’s shoulder and reaches back along the mental link with his acknowledgement, disentangling himself from the Master’s grip and downing the remainder of his drink in one long swig. Ben watches with interest as Anakin adjusts his robes until they settle lower on his shoulders, revealing the smooth skin of his throat and just a glimpse of his collarbone. He combs fingers through his hair, sending the already messy style into further disarray, and Ben has to wrap both hands around his drink to keep from tugging his Apprentice back to him, traitorous Jedi Knight be damned.

Anakin flashes him a sultry smile, the one he picked up from Ben during his Padawan years, and pushes away from the table. “I’m Ani, and I’m lonely,” he purrs, turning and sauntering over to the bar with his empty drink in hand.

Ben can’t hear what’s being said from his place at the booth, but he’s been on enough missions with the younger Sith to know how this is going to play out. That, and Anakin’s left their Bond open for Ben to follow along, should he so choose. He doesn’t close it, but doesn’t actively listen in either. Instead, he takes the time to admire Anakin’s strategy, and the skill with which he draws Krell’s attention from his Twi’Lek. She’s quick to flee once the Knight is distracted, looking quite relieved. Anakin allows Krell to reel him in instead, and Ben can feel the faint echo of the Apprentice’s disgust ghost along the Bond. Still, the Apprentice puts on an excellent show of falling for the Knight’s seduction, and Krell’s eyes light up when Anakin leans in and murmurs something into his ear.

The pair slip away from the bar, Anakin dragging Krell out a side door and into the alley, flashing Ben a meaningful glance as they go. Ben finishes the last of his drink, fishes a couple credits from his pocket and leaves them on the table to settle the tab, then makes to follow.

Stepping out into the alley, Ben is greeted by the sound of choking and the sight of Pong Krell held aloft by nothing but the Force. The Besalisk claws at empty air, attempting to pry loose a phantom hand, additional limbs flailing as he struggles for breath. His saberstaffs have fallen from his belt in his thrashing, and lay glittering in the low light. Anakin is positively radiant, standing before their enemy with burning eyes and a repulsed sneer. One hand suspends Krell, the other white-knuckled around the unignited hilt of his lightsaber. He is magnificent; death incarnate. Ben feels his heart skip in his chest, feels lust pool low in his gut, and prowls closer with a satisfied smirk.

“Anakin,” he calls, “surely you know better than to play with your food.”

Anakin glances over at him, lips twitching into an acknowledging smile. “If I did, you’d miss all the fun. I was only thinking of you, my Master.”

Ben chuckles, coming to stand at Anakin’s side and looking up at the gurgling Pong Krell. “How considerate of you, my dear Apprentice.”

With a wave of Anakin’s hand, Krell goes crashing to the ground, limbs splaying ungainly on the duracrete as he catches his breath. “You,” the Knight pants, “you’re the Sith that Koon is chasing.”

“That would be us,” Ben hums, crouching before the Besalisk. “And you, Pong Krell, are a disgrace to your Order; a pathetic, self-serving traitor, hiding behind a mask of righteousness. You are unworthy of midichlorians that course through your veins.”

“You know nothing about me,” Krell hisses, reaching for his ‘sabers in a way that he must think is subtle. Unfortunately, Ben and Anakin are experienced combatants, and the Apprentice sends them skittering down the alley before he can grab them. “I am a respected Jedi Knight.”

“Maybe for now,” the Master concedes, “but it would take so little to sway those loyalties, wouldn’t it? Just one little push, and you’d kneel before any Master that promised you greater than what the Order gives.”

“Is that what you want? For me to kneel to you?” Krell asks. “I could be useful—I could be your eyes within the Order. My services for my life.”

Ben laughs, sharp and harsh. He can feel Anakin stepping up behind him, hears the man’s ‘saber ignite, watches Krell’s eyes widen in fear. “I’m afraid that I have no want for your services, Knight Krell,” Ben sighs, pushing himself to his feet and flashing the Jedi a pitying smile. “What I _want_ is you, dead. Which my lovely Apprentice would like nothing more than to help me with.”

Ben watches with satisfaction as Anakin raises his weapon, silencing the Knight’s sputtered protests in one swift down-stroke.

__

Obi-Wan gags on the scent of rot and decay that permeates the already foul sewer air. The security droid acting as their guide buzzes its impatience, floating at the next bend and waiting for the Master-Padawan pair to reach it.

“I always hate missions involving sewers,” Obi-Wan says over his shoulder. Qui-Gon glances at him, acknowledging his comment, but says nothing. It’s unsurprising, if worrying.

In truth, Qui-Gon has had very little to say since awakening as abruptly from his coma as he’d fallen into it. The Jedi Master has been quiet, reserved, and lost inside his own head. Obi-Wan can feel the man’s mind humming by way of their bond, but the strong mental shields Qui-Gon has once again erected keeps him from knowing just what the man is thinking about. Simple questions, of the yes or no variety, are graced with answers, but anything more complicated are outright ignored. Anything pertaining to the man’s coma, or what he experienced on Dathomir, is met with a frigid silence and an even colder look.

Just when things were getting back to normal.

His only comfort comes in knowing that Qui-Gon has sealed off the second Bond as tightly as he’s cut off Obi-Wan. The Padawan had gone looking for it one night, feeling along the thread connecting them until he found where it fractured—where something else had taken hold and tied itself to the frayed pieces. Around it were walls higher and thicker than those separating Obi-Wan’s mind from his Master. Obi-Wan couldn’t feel anything through it, which meant that Qui-Gon couldn’t either. At least they wouldn’t be at risk of another episode like the one on Dathomir, even if a small part of him is disappointed that he didn’t get the chance to do any snooping into whoever lurks on the other side of the Bond.

The pair rounds the bend, coming upon the cause of their summons to their current location. Security droids provide a barrier, keeping back any gawkers bold enough to brave the sewers for a glimpse at the latest crime scene. Within their perimeter, Coruscant Security Force officers mill about, using scanners and other various tech in their documentation of the scene. An older Torgruta male notices their approach, striding forward to meet them. The rank bars on his chest signify his position as Detective.

“Master Jedi,” He calls, “it’s nice to meet you. I only wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.”

“It’s nice to meet you, as well,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is my Master, Qui-Gon Jinn. What can we help you with?”

The Detective steps away, gesturing for them to follow. “These sewers are popular with the criminals of Coruscant, so the CSF checks them regularly. In our last sweep, we found this.”

There’s a body lying under a protective sheet, keeping it safe from additional contamination and enthusiastic press photographers. The Detective pulls the sheet back, and Obi-Wan’s eyes go wide with recognition at what lies beneath. He feels Qui-Gon stiffen at his side, only further confirming his thoughts.

“We ran his prints, but didn’t have anything on record. I’ve been round long enough to know a lightsaber burn when I see one, though. Was hoping the Jedi might be able to identify him for us—maybe tell us a little more how he might’ve gotten down here. I know your Order isn’t big on killing, and certainly not on dumping bodies.”

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan breathes, staring down at the rotting corpse of Maul, “yeah, we can identify him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could say something about Ben Kenobi being a little shit, but I've basically covered it all in previous chapters. Also, Maul is 4realz deceased. RIP Maul. You will not be missed.


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben Kenobi continues to be a manipulative prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now return to our regularly scheduled chapter length.

Maul’s body is immediately transferred back to the Temple, the Council claiming his death to be a Jedi matter. The Detective is not thrilled at being cut out of his own investigation, but since he, himself, admitted that the open gash along Maul’s gut is a lightsaber wound, he can do nothing but stand by as the Sith’s body is loaded onto a floating gurney and hand over what evidence his people found when the Jedi Order is given jurisdiction over the crime. It’s taken to a private room in the Halls of Healing, where the Masters there will have a chance to look it over and determine a cause of death.

In Obi-Wan’s opinion, it’s probably the massive hole singed through the Zabrak’s chest where his heart should be, but what does he know.

“Just once,” Windu sighs, standing over Maul’s body and looking exhausted, “just once, would it kill you two to go on an assignment and _not_ stumble upon the Sith?”

“It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose,” Obi-Wan mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot against the floor. He waits for Qui-Gon to yell at him for it. He doesn’t.

“This is the third Sith Lord you encountered on Dathomir, though?”

“Yes” Qui-Gon answers. “He called himself Maul.”

“Any idea on who could have killed him? The Sith Master, maybe? You reported that they fought.”

“Adelfos seemed to _really_ hate Maul,” Obi-Wan supplies, “but I don’t think Adelfos killed him. He caused the abdominal wound, but Maul escaped when Adelfos went to Vader’s aid and, according to Master Koon, they haven’t been back on Coruscant since then.”

“So a third party, then,” Windu sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Just what we needed.”

“If I could make a suggestion, Master Windu?” Obi-Wan asks. “There is a Kiffar training under Master Tholme. Padawan Vos is very skilled in psychometry. I know the Council is hesitant to include any more Jedi in the Sith investigation, but maybe—”

Windu cuts him off before he’s even finished the thought. “No.”

“Why not? If Quinlan could use his gift, he might be able to tell us who killed Maul! It’d save us so much work!”

“Psychometry is a dangerous skill, Padawan Kenobi. It doesn’t allow its users to simply see what another saw. They experience it—physically and emotionally. In cases of violent death, there’s a high probability the victim will brush against the Dark Side in their final moments. With a Sith, it’s guaranteed. To put a psychometric user through that could corrupt them. We can’t take that risk, especially with a Padawan.”

“Master Jinn and I have had plenty of brushes with the Dark Side over the past few weeks, and we haven’t been corrupted! And Quinlan wouldn’t be alone—we’d be here to support him. He should be allowed to decide for himself whether or not he wants to take that risk.”

“Padawan—” Qu-Gon starts, with more emotion than Obi-Wan’s gotten out of him since he’d awoken.

“Agree with Padawan Kenobi, I do.” A third voice interjects. The party turns to watch Master Yoda’s small form hobble into the room. “Taken risks before, you have, Padawan Windu. Hesitate now, why do you?”

“That was different, Master,” Windu argues. “Dooku was a fully trained Master. I trusted him to maintain control—which he did. Padawan Vos does not have that experience, and cannot be counted on to maintain that same control.”

“Padawan Vos’ decision, this is,” Yoda says stiffly, putting an end to Windu’s protests. “Summon Master Tholme, we must.”

__

“So this is your life now, huh?” Quinlan hums, stalking around the gurney with wide, curious eyes. Obi-Wan watches from nearby as the other padawan makes his initial inspection of Maul’s body. “You know, most of the Temple thought you were crazy when you and Master Jinn came back claiming to have seen a Sith Lord.”

“Did you?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Of course not, Obi,” the elder padawan chuckles. “I know you. You were never one for the limelight. You wouldn’t have said you’d seen a Sith unless you actually did. And this…”

This. There’s really no other way to put it but _this_. Maul, splayed out on the stretcher, golden eyes glassy and unseeing. No one would be able to deny the man’s status as Darksider with those eyes staring up at them.

“Yeah…” Obi-Wan mumbles, not even bothering to berate Quinlan for the use of that despised nickname.

Their Masters are out in the hall, and Obi-Wan can faintly hear them as they discuss the events that are about to proceed. Nobody had been surprised when Quinlan agreed to use his psychometry on Maul’s body in attempt to gather information despite Mace’s protests. Tholme had been hesitant as well, but eventually his faith in his padawan’s skill won out. Qui-Gon had once again fallen into silence, to Obi-Wan’s consternation. His Master had almost reprimanded him earlier—a breakthrough, as far as he was concerned.

A strong arm wraps around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, startling him. “Hey, Obi,” Quinlan says, “I’m glad you’re ok.”

Obi-Wan smiles weakly back at him. “Thanks, Vos.”

The older padawan gives him one more tight squeeze before drawing away and clapping him on the shoulder instead. The strip of yellow that runs over the bridge of his nose scrunches up with the mischievous smile he wears. “We should get started.”

“Get started?” Obi-Wan squawks, watching the other boy stride toward Maul’s body with purpose. “Quinlan! The Masters haven’t come back yet!”

“Exactly. This will be much easier without them hovering. Less distractions. Now, come on. Or are you going to make me do this alone?”

“This is a bad idea,” Obi-wan mutters, but moves to stand at Vos’ side anyways. He lays a hand on the elder boy’s shoulder, the pair finding their center together before Vos reaches out and lays a hand over the wound to Maul’s chest.

“Alright,” he breathes, “let’s do this.”

They plunge into the depths of memory.

__

_Pain. There is so much pain. It pulses through his body, both his hindrance and his strength, as he limps through the streets of Coruscant. It starts in his stomach and radiates out, making each step agony. There is no way to move without jostling the open wound, where the other Darksider split him open with his strange white lightsaber. One hand hovers over the open gash, whether to protect it from further damage or to keep everything in its place, he doesn’t know. Maybe both._

_His feet travel the path, instinctual, weaving in and out of the light nighttime foot traffic, around buildings, through alleys. This walk is as familiar as any, taken a thousand times over the course of his life. He used to be angry when summoned by his Master at all hours, but now a small part of him is grateful for the experience. He doesn’t have to think about where he’s going—he just goes. Fortunate, as all his concentration is focusing on pulling strength from the Dark Side to keep himself upright and moving when his insides are threatening to take a vacation outside with every step he takes._

_Eventually, though, the apartment complex looms before him. He must take things slower this time, ever careful to avoid trailing blood to his Master’s doorstep. It’s a struggle; he can’t take the lifts lest he be caught on the building’s security feed, and he must pause between each flight of stairs, increasing the likelihood of some nighttime wanderer stumbling upon him. My some small miracle, however, nobody sees him, and he stumbles through his Master’s door unmolested._

_His vision is beginning to fade, everything blurry, and he collapses onto the rug at the center of the room. Internally, he cringes at getting blood on the undoubtedly expensive carpet, which will undoubtedly infuriate his Master; externally, he is too exhausted to do more that twitch in a fruitless attempt to move himself elsewhere. Pathetically, he almost hopes the Master will forgive him for the slight, all things considered._

_Slippered feet appear in his minimal range of vision, and a soft voice rasps, “My Apprentice. I did not expect you this evening.”_

_“Master,” he croaks, unsure of even where to begin._

_“What of your mission?” When he fails to answer immediately, pain-hazy mind struggling to string words together, toes dig harshly into his side. “Well?” His Master snarls._

_“The Darksiders—they were there.”_

_“They? There was more than one?”_

_“Yes. Two of them: a Master and an Apprentice. The Apprentice fought the Jedi. The Master—we fought.”_

_“You lost,” his Master observes coolly._

_A fresh wave of pain makes him shudder. “Yes,” he whimpers._

_His Master heaves a long sigh, and he watches the hem of the Master’s robes as he turns and stalks across the room. He can’t see where the man is going—doesn’t even have the energy to turn his head. “I’m disappointed in you, my Apprentice,” he hears. “I expected more of you, this far in your training.”_

_“I’m sorry, Master.”_

_“Sorry will not correct your mistakes. You have exposed us to the Jedi, have risked discovery here in my quarters.” There is the sound of a lightsaber igniting, and primal fear races through him. Footsteps approaching, but even with the additional strength granted by the desire for flight, his is too weak to do more than push himself to his hands and knees. “I do not have need of an Apprentice who cannot follow the simplest of orders.”_

_“No, Master, please,” he pleads. “I will be stronger.”_

_“Perhaps a new Apprentice will serve me better,” the Master growls._

_There’s a flash of red light, of gut-wrenching terror, of agonized pain, and then there is nothing_.

__

Thrown abruptly back into the present, Obi-Wan draws a sharp breath and stumbles away from Quinlan, heart pounding in residual terror. The other padawan collapses where he stands, shaking, the Force writhing around him. His eyes are clenched shut and he clutches at his hair, curling into a ball as the memory refuses to release him from its grip.

Obi-Wan knew this was a bad idea.

“M-Masters!” He yells, hopefully loud enough for them to hear as he edges closer to the fallen padawan.

Quinlan’s fear is almost palpable—an icy presence pounding at his mental shields. The closer he gets, the harder it gets to move forward. His head aches, shields splintering under the assault. He’s not sure how long he can last against it, and desperately wishes the Masters would hurry. He calls for them again, throws himself desperately against the Bond with Qui-Gon, but he can’t be sure he’s even be heard when his Master’s shields are still up so high.

Reaching out, he tries to stabilize Quinlan’s fluctuating Force presence, tries to feed the Light and fend off the Darkness that pollutes his signature, but they’re both so weak in the aftermath of the vision.

“Padawan!” Qui-Gon’s alarmed shout brings tears to his eyes.

His Master takes him by the shoulders, drags him away from Quinlan’s prone form and to his chest while Tholme gathers up his own Padawan. Quinlan’s signature stabilizes with his Master’s presence, but it’s dimmer—not nearly the vibrant star that once shone.

“What did you do?” Windu thunders when he arrives on the scene. Obi-Wan flinches from the tone, and Qui-Gon holds him a little tighter. He would probably be ecstatic about this breakthrough in his Master’s icy demeanor if not for the horror of the situation. If not for the certainty he feels that he’s about to be thrown out into the streets on his ass for this.

“Quin… Quinlan decided he would work better without you all hovering around. I told him it was a bad idea, but he wouldn’t listen. I tried to stabilize him, but I was too weak. The vision was _so strong_ —” his voice falters, and Qui-Gon hushes him, running circles into his back.

“I should have known better than to leave you two alone,” Windu snarls, “but there’s nothing to be done about it now. This vision: what did you see?”

“There’s another Sith,” Obi-Wan chokes out. “Another Master. Maul was his Apprentice. Adelfos hurt him on Dathomir. He tried to go back, tried to get help from his Master, but the Master didn’t help. He just… he just killed him. Why would he kill him?”

Windu sighs. “Master Jinn, take Padawan Kenobi back to your quarters. Master Tholme, Padawan Vos should be moved to the Mind Healer’s ward for the time being. I’ll help you…”

Obi-Wan watches as the two Masters haul Quinlan to his feet, supporting the limp padawan between them as they drag him from the room. Only when they are clear of sight does Qui-Gon make to rise, taking Obi-Wan’s unresisting form with him.

“Come along, Padawan,” his Master murmurs, steering them toward their apartment. “You can do nothing for him now.”

__

Ben finds him pacing the cockpit of the _Negotiator_ that night, fingers tangled in his unruly curls. He obviously hasn’t showered, still in the same bloodstained robes from earlier, muttering under his breath. His lightsaber lays on the console, along with the hilts of Pong Krell’s saberstaffs. Though the Jedi Order would undoubtedly prefer to have them back, who knows when they’ll be notified of the Knight’s demise, and leaving his weapons exposed for any looter to find would have been irresponsible. Who knows what trouble some lunatic could get into if they got their hands on a lightsaber?

“Anakin?” Ben calls, frowning when the boy startles, obviously having not heard him come in. “Anakin, what’s wrong?”

There’s a vulnerable look in the Apprentice’s eye that Ben hasn’t seen since the Hardeen incident—after Anakin found out that he’d faked his death and broken his trust. That same betrayal lurks in the boy’s eyes now. “I killed a Jedi,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” Ben confirms, stepping closer.

He doesn’t get as far as laying hands on the man, shoved away the instant he’s within Anakin’s reach. His voice grows louder as he continues to speak. “You _let me_ kill a Jedi! I trusted you!”

Well, Ben is thoroughly confused. Anakin is… upset? That they killed Krell? What happened to the happy-go-lucky Apprentice who’d happily strangled the Knight until his Master arrived? What had changed between their departure from the alleyway and now?

“Pong Krell was a Jedi only in the loosest sense, Anakin,” he scoffs, falling back on humor to mask how wrong-footed this conversation has him. Honestly, when he’d gone in search of his Apprentice, he’d been hoping to wrangle the boy into an evening meditation session. It appears that’s not going to happen, now.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Anakin’s face scrunches up in rage, eyes flashing dangerously. “What is wrong with you?” He snarls, advancing on Ben. “I trusted you to keep me from hurting anyone! From hurting the Jedi! You promised me I wouldn’t have to be that person anymore!”

Ah. So the boy is suffering residual guilt over having slaughtered members of the Jedi Order in their past life. He perceives this recent murder as backslide into his previous behavior. In truth, Ben has long since forgiven him for the act. It is in the past, quite literally; the people Anakin killed are alive and well, and the boy is unlikely to go on a homicidal rampage under Ben’s careful watch. Not unless Ben asked him to, anyways. Or if there are slavers involved. Still, he can understand Anakin’s dilemma, and he’s prepared to help talk his Apprentice through this crisis of conscious.

At least until Anakin takes a swing at him.

Anakin may be taller and heavier, but Ben has the advantage of speed, a clearer head, and twelve additional years of experience sparring with an opponent who was also taller and heavier than he. Not to mention that he practically raised Anakin—that he knows the boy’s fighting style just as well as his own. And while a bare-knuckled brawl is most definitely not on the list of things he intended to do this evening, Anakin isn’t giving him much of a choice.

He pins his unruly Apprentice to the wall of the cockpit, the boy’s flesh arm twisted up behind him to prevent any further struggle. Anakin still wiggles, inborn defiance making him test the limits of Ben’s control even now, but the Master simply presses him further into the wall, taking away any leverage he might have been able to use to throw Ben off.

The Apprentice is whimpering softly, writhing in Ben’s grip, and the elder Sith’s mind is taking an unhelpful detour into imagining just how many other ways he could pull those wonderful noises from Anakin’s throat—and in this exact position, too. It’s entirely inappropriate; his Apprentice is in _distress_. Still, that knowledge doesn’t stop his thoughts from coming. It doesn’t stop the plan forming to perhaps turn this situation in his favor. It doesn’t stop him from desperately hoping Anakin hasn’t notice that his Master is half-hard in his pants

“Stars,” Anakin moans, low and broken, “stars, oh stars. The Council—”

“Oh, for Force sake, _kriff the Council_!” Ben snarls, not particularly interested in hearing about the vaunted Jedi Council in this moment, when he’s having to divert a significant portion of his mental processes to not fucking his former padawan here and now. They have to discuss this meltdown of Anakin’s first. “It’s about twenty years too late for either of us to give a bantha’s ass about what they have to think!”

Anakin nearly wrenches his arm out of socket with the force of his head snapping around to stare at his Master, wide-eyed and startled. Of course that would be what drags him out of his pit of self-loathing. Obi-Wan Kenobi had spent the better part of his miserable life groveling at their feet; to hear him curse them in such a way would undoubtedly come as a surprise to the younger Sith.

“I’m going to let you go now, and we’re going to discuss this like adults. Do you understand?”

At Anakin’s weak confirmation, barely more than an acknowledging whine, Ben releases him. He doesn’t step back, maintaining a position of power and forcing Anakin to turn in the limited space provided. The Apprentice stares pointedly at their boots in a small act of rebellion. Petulant.

Ben clicks his tongue, grabbing hold of the boy’s chin and dragging it upwards. “Look at me.”

The younger Sith’s gaze flickers about for a moment before finally, with no other way to avoid it, settling on Ben’s. Anakin’s eyes have more red in them than Ben’s own liquid gold; they smolder like the lava that witnessed their birth. Ben had found them repulsive before his own fall, but looking at them now, they really are quite lovely.

“Do you trust me?”

Anakin blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a simple question, Anakin. Do you trust me?”

Anakin opens his mouth as if to immediately respond, but closes it again almost as quickly. Instead, he takes a moment to consider the question, which Ben is grateful for. He needs honesty if he’s to keep things from falling to pieces again. Anakin’s secrets had destroyed them, the first time around. He will not allow it to happen again.

“I… I want to,” he finally says. “I want to trust you, because you’re my Master, but sometimes it’s so hard. Sometimes you’re so different from how you used to be.”

Ben hasn’t let go of Anakin’s chin, his thumb running distractedly along the Apprentice’s jaw as he considers his response. “And you are not the same child that my Master pulled from the Tattooinian desert. Nor are you the man who ruled an empire at Sidious’ side. People change, Anakin. This is a learning process for the both of us, as we discover who we are now.”

“I don’t feel changed. I killed a Jedi. You let me kill a Jedi. You _wanted_ me to, just like _he_ did.”

“Yes,” Ben sighs, “I did. I wanted Pong Krell dead, and I wanted to watch you kill him.”

Anakin tenses, the Bond between them going cold when the Apprentice abruptly throws up mental shields at the Master’s admission. Ben doesn’t like the separation, doesn’t like losing the emotional feedback he would have otherwise gotten, but plunges ahead anyways.

“But do you understand, Anakin, how what I asked of you and what Sidious asked of you differ?”

“I don’t—”

“What Sidious asked of you was cruelty for cruelty’s sake, Anakin” Ben explains. “He asked you to destroy the Jedi Order because they stood in his way. He wanted them dead for no better reason than his own selfish desires. But Krell, Anakin? Krell _deserved_ to die—for what he did in our past life, for what he could do. He was dangerous, a threat to the people we are trying to protect. It was only a matter of time before he hurt someone. He had to be stopped. Do you understand?”

Anakin nods weakly in Ben’s hand, and it’s not completely convincing, but it’s good enough for now. He lets the Master past his mental shields when Ben pushes again, allowing him a glimpse into the boy’s mind. He’s still confused, still upset, but he can be brought around to Ben’s point of view.

With his free hand, he catches the boy by the waist and closes the meager gap between them. Anakin wiggles a bit, as he usually does whenever Ben initiates close contact like this, but settles as the Master strokes soothingly down his spine. “Trust that I won’t allow you to slip down that path again. I only want what’s best for you, dear one.” Ben murmurs. “What’s best for us—for everyone—is that Pong Krell died. You should be happy. You protected them.”

Tilting Anakin’s head to a more optimal angle, he leans in and connects them with a chaste kiss. He feels Anakin shudder under his palm, hears the hitch of his breath at that first contact. It is bliss.

“I’m so proud of you,” Ben whispers against his lips.

This is what breaks him—rips a whine from the boy’s throat as his hands, flesh and mechanical, finally rise from their place at his sides and tangle in the front of Ben’s robes. Anakin leans into him, mashing their lips together hungrily, and Ben smirks into the kiss.

Victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that. Pong Krell was good for something after all.


	16. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, somebody fucks up big time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone who's following along with this story, whether you've been here since the beginning or got picked up along the way. We recently passed 100 bookmarks, which is awesome. This chapter also broke the fic's 50k words/100 pages mark. I still have a lot o story to share with you, so thanks to all for showing your support. I can not describe what ya'll mean to me. Smooches for all.

Swaddled in blankets pulled from their beds, Obi-Wan sits on the couch, trembling his way through the adrenaline crash that came with finally being somewhere his brain deemed as safe. In the kitchen, his Master is rifling through the cupboards, pulling out the necessary supplies for tea. The familiar clinking of cups against the countertop and the whistle of the kettle helps to soothe the padawan’s frazzled nerves, but the horrific last minutes of Darth Maul’s life still linger whenever he closes his eyes.

He doesn’t hear Qui-Gon approach, and startles when a mug is shoved under his nose. The Master frowns at his reaction, but doesn’t comment. Obi-Wan takes the cup, blushing slightly, and inhales the heady aroma wafting from it. The warmth of the mug in his hands and the familiar scent of Sencha green ground him in the present. He’s in the apartment with his Master, he tells himself as he takes a sip of tea, no-one can hurt them here. Not even the Sith.

“Are you alright, Padawan?” Qui-Gon finally asks, breaking the silence.

No, Obi-Wan isn’t alright. They both know it. He gives the Master a weak smile anyways. “I will be, eventually.”

“I don’t doubt it. You have always been very strong, Obi-Wan. You will find your way back.” Qui-Gon assures. “Would it help to talk about it?”

“I already told Master Windu what I saw.”

“Yes, padawan, but what you experienced is more than just what you saw in the memory. You felt everything that Maul felt—experienced his death as if it was your own. Psychometry is dangerous not only for the things it allow you to feel, but for the effects it may leave afterwards. You shouldn’t suffer through this alone, Obi-Wan.”

The padawan sniffles, taking another sip of his tea before finally answering. “I just don’t understand,” Obi-Wan says softly, voice tremulous with his wavering composure. “I don’t understand how the Master could have just killed Maul the way he did. He could have healed him, if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He just slaughtered Maul like an animal. How could a Master do that to their student? After so many years of training?”

“You must understand,” Qui-Gon sighs, setting his mug down and reaching out, wrapping his larger hands around his padawan’s trembling ones and stilling them, “that the Sith are very different from the Jedi. They don’t develop bonds in the way Jedi Masters and Padawans do. A Sith Apprentice must earn the right to be taught, and in turn, to teach. If an Apprentice is perceived as too weak to carry on the line, to eventually kill the Master, the Sith may see no purpose in even bothering to continue their training.”

“Adelfos isn’t like that,” Obi-Wan argues weakly, staring down at his drink and their joined hands. “You were unconscious by the time Dooku and Vader fought on Dathomir, but Vader lost to your Master. If the Sith really don’t see the point in raising a weak Apprentice, why would he have come to Vader’s rescue? Why would he have let Maul escape? He obviously hasn’t killed Vader, considering Master Koon just reported running into them on Tattooine…”

Qui-Gon gives him a strange look, as though considering him, before sighing. “That’s just it. I don’t think Adelfos is a Sith. Or, at least, he wasn’t raised as a Sith. Not like Maul’s Master was.”

“What?” The padawan gapes.

“I think Adelfos may have been a Jedi once. It would certainly explain the discrepancies in his and Vader’s behavior, compared to Maul and his Master. Jedi Masters and Padawans develop close bonds, even if the Code preaches the dangers of attachment. If Adelfos is a Fallen Jedi, it may explain his hesitancy to dispose of Vader, should he have proven himself unworthy.”

Obi-Wan eyes him knowingly. “And just what made you begin to suspect that Adelfos might be Fallen?”

It’s Qui-Gon’s turn to blush and avert his gaze. “I… I have been having nightmares. The Mind Healers tell me they’re a side effect of the second bond. When I close my eyes, I see a boy Knighted far too young, trying to raise a Padawan far too old following the death of his Master. I watch him struggle and I think… I think it’s him. Adelfos.”

“Have you told the Council about your suspicions?”

“Not yet. If he was a Jedi, he’ll be in the records somewhere. I wanted to check them before I bring this up with the Council.”

Obi-Wan considers his Master’s response, chewing on his lower lip for a moment before the question he’s been stuck on since Bant told him about the second bond tumbles from his lips. “Even if he was a Jedi before, why would our bond have accepted him? Why would _I_ have accepted him? I don’t understand.”

Qui-Gon gives him a weak smile, releasing the padawan’s hands and moving his grip to Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “Oh, padawan,” the Master sighs, “you have always been so kind. You see the best in people, and you want to help them. You want to help the Republic, and you want to help the Jedi, and you want to help Vader. I think that when Adelfos reached out, you didn’t see Jedi or Sith. I think you saw a man in pain, and you wanted to help him, too.”

The padawan isn’t sure how he feels about his Master’s speculation, but he doesn’t struggle when the man gently squeezes his shoulders before letting him go. Qui-Gon pries the mug from his hands, making a comment about Obi-Wan’s tea going cold and fetching him a new cup, then disappears into the kitchen, leaving his pupil alone to think.

He want to be angry with Adelfos. He really does. Who does the man think he is, barging into their bond uninvited? But what if Qui-Gon is right? The more Obi-Wan learns about the Sith, the less Adelfos seems like a true Sith. Or at least, a Sith as the Order knows them. What if there is more to him than he would lead them to believe? What if there is a Jedi Knight in there, lost in the madness of the Dark Side?

When Qui-Gon returns, brandishing fresh cups, Obi-Wan takes his and offers his Master a hesitant smile. “I can help you look through the temple records,” he says softly. “For Adelfos, I mean. If you want.”

Qui-Gon smiles at him in return. “Thank you, padawan. It would be much appreciated.”

__

Plo Koon watches what passes as a security force on pleasure planets, no more than a handful of men, load a stretcher bearing Pong Krell’s body into the cargo hold of his ship. Sadness weighs heavy on his heart; Knight Krell may never have been the best of the Jedi, but he did not deserve this. A servant of the people, left out in the alley for scavengers to pick over until someone bothered to notify the security force.

The Besalisk’s wounds are undoubtedly from a lightsaber, but there is no way of knowing exactly who dealt them without further investigation, seeing as Krell’s own weapons are absent. Someone could have overpowered the Knight and taken his ‘sabers if he was drunk enough, or it could have been the workings of the Sith. Which Sith, however, is the question. While news of Maul’s death has reached him by way of the Council, there is still the Zabrak’s as of yet unidentified Master who could have just as easily killed a lone Knight.

With a sigh, Plo turns away from the ship, leaving the security force to their work and heading toward the bar where Krell’s body was found.

“Sorry, buddy, we’re closed,” the bartender, a Weequay male, says when Koon enters, not even bothering to glance up from the glasses he’s shining behind the counter. “Come back later.”

“I’m afraid I’m not here for a drink.”

The barkeep does look up then, glancing between Plo’s face and the lightsaber at his hip before setting down the glass and rag in his hands. “You’re a Jedi. Here about that guy they found in my alley?”

Plo nods. “I was wondering if had any security holos from that night? We are attempting to identify the culprit, and your assistance would be much appreciated. So far no witnesses have come forward.”

The Weequayan chuckles. “Buddy, the only people with security holos are the ones that don’t make money. People around these parts pay for their privacy, and I like making rent.”

“Well then, I don’t suppose _you_ saw anything that night?”

“I mighta seen something,” the barkeep drawls, “not sure, though. Was a busy night, and my memory’s not what it was.

Plo sighs, reaching into a pocket of his utility belt and removing a handful of credits. They clink together when he deposits them on the countertop between himself and the barkeep, who wears a smug smile. “I don’t suppose these would help to aid your memory?”

Drawing the small pile towards him, the Weequay counts out Plo’s offering with greedy eyes. Apparently finding the bribe acceptable, he pockets the credits and jerks a thumb toward the far end of the bar. “Your guy was sitting over there most of the night, harassing some poor Twi’Lek girl until another patron came over and started talking him up.”

“What did he look like?”

“Human male, about six feet, young. Blonde, blue eyes,” the barkeep gestures along the right side of his face, “big scar right here. Still pretty, though.”

Plo feels his stomach twist painfully. The barkeep’s description matches Vader to a tee, except, “You said he had blue eyes? Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” the Weequayan huffs. “Was weird, though. Could have sworn they were kinda orange when he first ordered his drink, but they were blue when he came back up. Almost as weird as chatting up a Besalisk when he could have talked anybody in the place into a few rounds, with the way he was batting those baby blues.”

“I see,” Plo sighs. “What happened after that?”

“The kid and your man left out the side door. A couple minutes later, another guy followed them out. I figured he must have realized his toy had run off with somebody else. Why he would’ve is beyond me, though—the second guy wasn’t hard on the eyes either, you know?”

“This second man, he wouldn’t have happened to have red hair, would he? Yellow eyes?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. He was wearing gloves all night, which I thought was weird ‘cause it gets pretty hot in here when business picks up, but it’s less fingerprint smudges to rub off the glasses, I guess.”

The second man is undoubtedly Ben, which confirms the first as Anakin despite the strange discrepancy in his eye color. “And you didn’t find that at all suspicious?”

The barkeep snorts. “Of course it was suspicious, but I don’t go poking my nose into other people’s business. What my clients do when they leave my bar isn’t my problem.”

Plo experiences a brief flash of anger at this man’s lackadaisical attitude, a momentary desire to wring the man’s neck for his disregard of Pong Krell’s life, but releases it immediately into the Force like any good Jedi Master should. Instead, he thanks the Weequay and exits the bar, heading back toward his ship with his mind racing.

It is without question, now, that Ben and Anakin killed Pong Krell. With the solving of this mystery, however, a dozen more have sprung up in its place. Thus far, the Sith pair has shown reluctance to harm Jedi outright. Violence has always been instigated either by said Jedi or a third party. Pong Krell’s death in an anomaly. What had happened to warrant his demise? Unlike the barkeep, Plo does not believe it to be a lover’s quarrel gone sideways. Plo saw how Vader looked at Adelfos on Tattooine; even filthy and surrounded by death, the elder Sith might as well have hung the stars. No, Krell had done something to earn their ire.

And so the first Jedi in a thousand years had been felled by the blade of a Sith.

__

Dirt cakes Dooku’s usually pristine boots as he trudges along the roads of this planet. If you can even call them roads. The tightly-packed earth serving as roadways on this backwater planet have been Dooku’s home since his dismissal from Coruscant. He understands why the Council has sent him here; he understands that this is punishment for his inability to subdue the Sith on Dathomir. It doesn’t make him resent his situation any less.

Dooku has always been a man of the world, with a taste for good food and fine things perhaps better suited to his birthright as a Count than a Jedi Master. As such, the Council’s decision to send him here, a planet whose name he barely cares to remember with a civilization barely coming into its own, seems like a particular cruelty.

It is his duty to watch over these people—to supervise their growth and protect them from harm. At one point he might have found their development fascinating. He, like his former padawan, would have taken great delight in watching their culture develop into something unique. Now, though, he loathes every day he spends under the planet’s sun. He trudges along from village to village, settling disputes between tribes and offering aid to the troubled and wishing desperately that he weren’t so far away from his lineage.

Obi-Wan had commed as promised once Qui-Gon awoke, filling him in on the details of the Master’s episode and its cause. He explained the secondary bond, and expressed his reservations as to its existence. Dooku, in turn, had tried to offer some form of comfort, and had shared stories from his current assignment to distract him from the worry over Qui-Gon’s recovery. It was, perhaps, the most they’d spoken in years, and Dooku would admit that he missed Obi-Wan’s sharp wit and bright smile. He is an excellent match for Qui-Gon, and Dooku is pleased that former pupil decided to take a chance on the boy after the debacle with Xanatos.

The distance from them now is like a physical ache. There are only certain places on this planet where his com device gets reception, and he had passed those days ago. It will be some time before he finishes his current circuit and works his way back to the more populated areas, where he can chance another com session with his padawan and grandpadawan. He hates not knowing how they are—if they’ve run into more problems with the Sith. He hates not being there to protect them.

What was once a soft whisper in the back of his mind has steadily grown into an incessant chatter. The Dark Side calls to him more than ever, following his defeat on Dathomir. It feeds on his fear of failing again, on his hatred for his assignment, on the hopelessness of isolation. It calls to him, offering him power to protect his lineage and more, if only he lets it in. There are some days when its promises are so alluring, he almost accepts. He almost says yes and yields to the darkness that dances around him, feeling for cracks in his shields with shadowy fingers.

There is a man on the trail ahead. Or, at least, Dooku thinks it’s a man. The figure is a hunchbacked, robed thing, making its way along the path in Dooku’s direction. Its presence is unsettling, both to his regular senses and within the Force. Dooku rarely crosses paths with anyone on his journey, and the strange, robed figure causes stress to instinctive lizard brain, suspicious of anything out of the norm. The Light recoils from wherever the figure wanders, as though repulsed by its very presence.

Dooku is unaware that he’s stopped moving forward, frozen in place and watching the stranger approach him. And it does seem to be approaching _him_. He can feel its attention upon him, even though he cannot see its eyes beneath the shadows of its deep hood.

The hunched thing stops before him, the withered hand that clutches its walking stick the only thing not hidden by the folds of its robes. “You are Master Yan Dooku, of the Jedi Order?” It rasps.

Dooku does not want to answer. Courtesy requires he does. “Yes, I am,” he says. “And who are you?”

“All in good time,” the figure replies. It gestures with its walking stick toward the direction it came from. “Come. Walk with me, child.”

It has been some time since anyone called Dooku _child_ , and he briefly takes offense at the title. Very briefly, as the stranger has already begun to hobble away, and Dooku must take several large strides to catch back up with it.

“I sense that you are struggling, child,” the hooded figure begins. “Struggling with yourself, and your place in this galaxy. You have long thought you knew, but something has recently upset that balance, hm?”

“How could you possibly—”

“I can feel your confusion within the Force, Masker Dooku. It is why I have come. You balance precariously between the Light Side and the Dark. I have sought you out to show you another path.”

Dooku stiffens, freezing mid-stride. “You are the other Sith Lord. Maul’s Master.”

The form’s voluminous robes ripple with a bob of its head. “You are very wise, Master Dooku. Yes. I am Darth Sidious.”

A hand strays to Dooku’s lightsaber, but for some reason he does not draw it. “What are you doing here?” He asks instead. “Why have you revealed yourself to me?”

“It is like I said,” Sidious chortles. Dooku cannot see the man’s face, but he would bet that smile shows too many teeth. “I sensed your distress, and came to offer you a better path. You are questioning the Jedi, and your place among them. Perhaps your path is not amongst their fold, after all.”

“You claim my place is among the Sith? Why would you offer to train me, if you already have an Apprentice? What of your Rule of Two?”

“Alas, I see the news has not made it out this far,” Sidious says with a pitying sigh. “My Apprentice succumbed to the injuries he sustained on Dathomir.”

“Adelfos,” Dooku hisses under his breath, recalling the Sith Master and the man’s power. He doesn’t really intend for Sidious to hear it, but the man perks up anyways.

“Ah, so that is what this so-called Sith Master calls himself,” Sidious scoffs. “You have encountered him before?”

“On Dathomir. He incapacitated myself and my former Padawan. My grandpadawan was lucky to escape away unharmed.”

“Hm… and this is why you seek power? Why you question the Jedi Council?”

“I was not strong enough to win in an encounter with a Sith. The Jedi Council failed to prepare its people for their resurgence, then banished me to this wretched planet, while keeping my padawan and his pupil bound to Coruscant. To remove those who know the Sith best from the investigation is folly. I can do nothing from here, nor can they from behind the temple’s walls.”

“I see. And what if I could offer you the chance to make things right? To have strength enough to take revenge on this Lord Adelfos, to protect your own, to show the Jedi Council the error of their way. What then, Master Dooku?”

He should say no. He should draw his ‘saber and cut Sidious down where he stands. He had likely instructed Maul to attack them on Dathomir in the first place. He shouldn’t consider Sidous’ offer. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t he shouldn’t.

And yet Dooku drops to his knees before the second Sith Master, there in the dirt on a planet with no real importance to anyone. “Please, Lord Sidious,” he pleads, “teach me the power of the Dark Side.”

Sidious’s other gnarled hand emerges from the folds of his robes, coming to rest on Dooku’s shoulder. He does his best not to shiver at the contact, and the oily feeling of the Dark that comes with it. “Rise, my Apprentice,” Sidious croaks. “From this day forth, you shall be known as Darth Tyranus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, Dooku, you blew it.  
> Qui and Obi are working things out now that they're actually talking to each other. I'm so proud of them.  
> We'll check back in with the boys next time. They didn't fit in this chapter, unfortunately.


	17. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids! Sorry for the delay in this chapter. I hate it, but it's been forever since i've updated and shit needs to get moving again. Also there was supposed to be porn somewhere in here that I just couldn't make work so it has been rescheduled another chapter. Sorry those of you I promised porn to.

Obi-Wan turns the communicator over in his palm—an impatient gesture—but the small device is as quiet as the library around him. Dooku has missed his check-in, the Council says. He hasn’t commed Obi-Wan either, breaking their unspoken arrangement to get in contact whenever he has enough signal to do so. This silence is foreboding, and Obi-Wan can’t help but think that there’s something more to this than the Council’s assumption that he got held up somewhere. The Council thinks he’ll comm in eventually; Obi-Wan’s beginning to suspect that he won’t.

A new stack of datapads is pushed in his direction, Qui-Gon eyeing him pointedly as he does so. “He’ll call when he’s available,” the Master sighs. “You should keep your mind busy. It will help pass the time.”

They’ve come to the library to begin their hunt for Adelfos within the Jedi records. Stacks of datapads cover their chosen table—a secluded spot near the rear of the library, where they’re unlikely to be disturbed by the nosier of their brethren. Qui-Gon has collected files on just about anyone connected even vaguely to the Order, and they’ve spent the better part of their afternoon digging through them in hopes of finding anyone who matches Qui-Gon’s description of the Knight from his dreams.

There’s been nothing amongst Knights and Masters, though that could be expected, so the Master has turned his attention to those listed as missing or dead while Obi-Wan runs through the active Jedi list one last time. It would be to the benefit of a Fallen Jedi to be listed in one of those categories, as the Order would not suspect their involvement in much of anything. If that also fails, Qui-Gon has requested the records of all Corps members, as perhaps the Sith Master had left the Order to join them after his attempt at raising a Padawan. This is by far the Master’s most outlandish theory, but it’s obviously beginning to wear on the man that they haven’t found anything yet.

Obi-Wan’s own profile pops up when he plugs in the physical description Qui-Gon gave him to work with, and he sighs as he swipes it away and moves on to the next entry. It’s safe to say that he’s not the Sith Master, after all. There are two or three more sentients who match the description, but none of whom Obi-Wan recognizes as Adelfos. He’s grateful to have had the opportunity to see the man’s face; this process would be significantly more difficult if they were solely working off what the man looked like in his youth.

Qui-Gon makes a soft, frustrated noise from where he sits across the table, and Obi-Wan sets his datapad down. “Have you considered trying to find the Padawan?” He asks. At his Master’s confused look, he elaborates.

“You’ve mentioned before that Adelfos had a Padawan, and that he featured quite often in the man’s memories. We obviously aren’t having any luck finding him, so maybe we should look for the Padawan instead. If we could find him, his Master should be listed on his records, no matter where Adelfos ended up afterwards.”

The Master’s eyes light up, and he flashes Obi-Wan a proud grin. “An excellent suggestion, Padawan!” Qui-Gon says, setting aside his current datapad and digging around for the one containing Padawan records. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner. I suppose I got so focused on Adelfos, I didn’t even think…”

He sets clears the space between them and sets the datapad in the center of the table. Obi-Wan leans up on his elbows to watch his Master input what he knows about Adelfos’ former padawan into the filter system. Qui-Gon hasn’t spoken much about the Padawan, beyond the basics. Blonde, blue-eyed, human male. Quite young for having Padawan status.

“Honestly, this should be so much easier,” the Master rambles, “I even had the boy’s name. Stars above, I’m such a nerf-herder sometimes. Where are you, Anakin Skywalker…”

Obi-Wan’s blood runs cold in his veins as Qui-Gon flips excitedly though the files the datapad brought up. Surely he doesn’t mean—?

But Obi-Wan hasn’t mentioned Darth Vader’s true name to anyone but Plo Koon, and the Kel Dor Master never made it a matter of record, lest Obi-Wan get in trouble for withholding information. The only way his Master would have learned that name would be through his dreams, and if the Anakin Skywalker in his dreams, the Padawan that Adelfos had once raised, is the same one Obi-Wan knows…

Oh, by the Force, they’ve made a huge mistake.

Dropping back into his chair, Obi-Wan reaches out and takes hold of one of his Master’s hands, stilling him. He can’t bring himself to look at Qui-Gon as he speaks. “Master, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Qui-Gon’s brows furrow, and through their Bond, Obi-Wan can feel the man’s concern for his behavior vying for dominance over his anxiousness to get back to searching for Skywalker. “Can it wait a moment?”

“It… it’s really can’t.”

“Ok,” the Master sighs, and sets the datapad down. He leans back in his own chair, hand slipping from Obi-Wan’s grip as he does so, and the Padawan places his own hands in his lap for lack of anything better to do with them. “What is the matter, Padawan?”

Obi-Wan swallows, throat suddenly very dry. Force, Qui-Gon is going to be devastated. “Do you remember back when we first met Vader? I told the Council rescued me from the temple’s trap, and he did. But I didn’t tell them that he introduced himself with another name, before he told me his Sith title. I hadn’t thought it was important, not when the Council still wasn’t even convinced that he was a Sith, and then everything happened so fast… I told Master Koon before he left, but he hasn’t made it a matter or record, because I might get in trouble for withholding information and we’re already under so much scrutiny…”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon rasps, “why are you telling me this now?”

“Because the Padawan you’re looking for, Adelfos’ Padawan—you’re not going to find him in the records. And we’re not going to find Adelfos.”

“Why not?”

“Because Darth Vader’s true name is Anakin Skywalker.”

Qui-Gon is silent, their bond cold with disbelief.

“We’ve made a huge mistake, Master. _I’ve_ made a huge mistake. Vader didn’t go back to Adelfos because he was his Sith Master in a past life; he went back because he was his Jedi Master. We haven’t been able to find the Brother that Mother Talzin spoke of because he’s already been found, and we just didn’t know it.”

* * *

 

The Geonosians are less than pleased with the sudden and unexpected arrival of two representatives from the Trade Federation. There isn’t an inspection on the record for some time yet, and they have more important matters to attend to than showing Federation lackeys around the factories whenever their financial backers get cold feet. That being said, they do it anyways. There is a fair amount of grumbling done in their hissing clicking language, but a few of the factory’s higher ranking officials lead the pair through the mountainous machines that these representatives may bring back reassurances that everything is going to plan. The Trade Federation pays them too much to do otherwise; to have them pull their support of Geonosis’s economy would be disastrous.

“This isn’t going to work,” Anakin hisses, leaning over to speak the words in his Master’s ear when he thinks the bugs aren’t looking. “They’re going to figure us out.”

“If you keep being so jumpy, they certainly will,” Ben responds, cool as ever.

Anakin grits his teeth at his Master’s calm demeanor, plucking at the uncomfortable robes the man had forced him into before the mission and cursing the Trade Federation’s latest fashion trends. The ostentatious crimson and gold robes are cut awkwardly, intended to accommodate for a Neimoidian’s shorter stature and make them appear taller. On a human, especially one of Anakin’s height, they just look ridiculous. Ben is, of course, pulling his off with ease; in all their years together, Anakin had never picked up the man’s talent for deception.

The bugs don’t wear enough clothes to notice that Anakin’s are strange, but they certainly will be suspicious if Anakin continues to fidget in obvious discomfort. That doesn’t stop him, and Ben has to quickly bat the boy’s hands away when he reaches to tug at his collar again.

“The people of Geonosis hope you are getting everything you need from this tour to reassure yourselves of the stability and success of this investment,” says a silver protocol droid who patters along after them, translating for the bugs. “While the factories are still in progress, construction is on schedule and the entirety of the complex will be completed in no more than a few months’ time, at which point production of the Federation’s droids may begin.

Ben smiles diplomatically, much to Anakin’s disdain. If he had his way, they’d just blow the whole karking place up and be done with it. “We thank you very much for your patience, and are grateful for this opportunity to see how the factories are coming along. I’m sure, with what we’ve seen here today, that our backers will be most pleased by your progress.”

The protocol droid relays this to the Geonosians, who seem visibly relieved by the news, and for just a moment, Anakin settles. For just one, fleeting moment, he allows himself to think that perhaps this mission of theirs will be ok. Perhaps they will get the information they need about the state of Sidious’ plans, and they’ll get out without anything going wrong.

Which is, of course, when they turn a corner and run into another group of Geonosians—and Dooku.

Both parties freeze, each apparently as alarmed at the other’s presence, and in the next heartbeat Anakin finds himself thrown back down the hall from which they came with a hard shove of the Force. The blade red lightsaber—Dooku is wielding a _red_ lightsaber—barely misses Ben’s outstretched hand, the origin of the Force Push that sent Anakin flying. Dooku’s second strike is met by Ben’s white blade, and the Geonosians scatter to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Anakin pushes himself to his feet, intent on coming to his Master’s aid, but Ben catches his eye over his shoulder with a look that holds the Apprentice.

“Get back to the ship,” Ben snarls, before turning his full attention back to Dooku. “I’ll meet you there!”

Anakin, though hesitant to leave his Master to fight Dooku alone, does not argue. Instead, he jogs down the hall in the direction of the ship, intent on having everything ready to go as soon as Ben manages to get away from Dooku. They’re going to need to beat a hasty retreat with all these bugs hanging about and—

Skidding to a halt outside a room their tour guides had walked them through earlier, a plan begins piecing itself together in his mind. His lips curl as he forces the door open, and that smile would have sent those who knew him scurrying for cover. A communicator is pulled from his pocket, and he sets to work rewiring it as he walks into the room.

Oh yeah, he can work with this.

* * *

 

“How nice to see you again, Lord Adelfos,” Dooku spits over their crossed lightsabers. “I have been waiting for the chance to do battle on equal footing.”

“I must confess, Lord Tyranus,” Ben growls in response, relishing in the man’s startled look at the use of his formal title, “I was rather hoping to avoid this confrontation.”

Dooku smirks, “And yet you send your Apprentice away.”

“I don’t doubt my ability to defeat you—only his ability to stay out of my way.”

One of the Geonosians apparently had the good sense to sound the alarm, because the emergency lights kick on, bathing the hall in red light. Combined with the red and white glow of the two Sith Lords’ lightsabers, deep shadows are thrown along the walls. Ben can hear footsteps and beating wings as more heavily armed bugs approach to put down the intruder—him, in this case. Most of his attention is dedicated to fending off Dooku, but he reaches out with the Force and tugs at the Dark, remembering the way it had felt to touch Anakin’s gruesome creations that morning in the apartment.

Pleasure curls in his gut when he hears the first bug scream, when Dooku’s eyes widen in horror. The shadows around them writhe and reach, dragging bugs from the air and ripping them apart with the same brutal efficiency they’d shown against his poor furniture. Ben’s own creations are not nearly as stable as Anakin’s had been, distracted as he is by Dooku’s onslaught, but they are enough to keep the bugs off his back while he does combat with the elder Sith Lord.

“I see Sidious had yet to teach you the more useful skills of a Sith,” Ben sneers, parrying Dooku’s latest strike and driving the man back. Tyranus’ alarm at Ben’s latest display of skill is making him sloppy. “Honestly, Tyranus. I expected better of you. Sidious? Really?”

“My Master has shown me the truth of the Jedi Order and its Council,” the elder snarls, forcing Ben to duck a harsh swipe, barely missing the top of his head. “I will be strong enough to show them the price of their ignorance. I will protect those who they have failed.”

Their ‘sabers lock again, but this time Ben has the advantage. With a flurry of his saber, he sends his opponent’s weapon flying and comes to a stop with the tip of his blade near centimeters from Dooku’s throat. Disarmed and defeated, Dooku raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. Ben does not move his weapon.

“You are a fool, Tyranus. You have chosen the losing side of this war; you will protect _no one_ for as long as you remain at Sidous’ side.”

Only then does Ben step back, thumbing his ‘saber off. Dooku eyes him warily, but makes no move to attack him. They have, it seems, reached an unspoken truce for now. The bugs, too, have ceased fire, due more to their demise than any decision on their part. Dark tendrils still writhing around them, the hallway is suddenly thrust into a tense silence as each party waits to see what the other will do.

“Make no mistake,” Ben finally hisses, “I could have killed you today—I could still, should you try my patience. I have no desire to see you dead, but you have made a grave error in aligning yourself with Sidious. That man leaves nothing but destruction in his wake, and I only hope you come to your senses before it is too late.”

Ben takes one step back, then another, then a third, but Dooku remains where stands. There is always the change Dooku will throw Force Lightning when he turns his back, as Ben had done on Dathomir, but Master takes that risk anyways. He is rewarded when no such attack comes, and he turns the next corner unharmed.

Anakin is waiting in the ship, engines already on and ready to take off. “Did you kill him?” The Apprentice asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“No. I let him live; hopefully he will come to his senses before he makes himself an obstacle we have to remove. I don’t think that Qui-Gon would be very appreciative of the murder of his former Master, Fallen or not.”

“Oh,” Anakin says, guiding the ship easily through the lower atmosphere. There’d been no flashy takeoff, nor any stunts along the way, which would have been more suspicious if Ben was not otherwise preoccupied with Dooku’s unexpected fall to the Dark Side. As such, he doesn’t suspect anything when Anakin innocently asks, “May I see your communicator?”

He hands it over, and Anakin punches in a series of numbers with a smug grin on his face. Almost immediately, a great rumbling emanates from below, and Anakin turns the ship around just in time to watch the factory complex go up in a truly magnificent explosion. Anakin is grinning like the pyromaniac he has been since he was a nine year-old pod racer reveling in his opponents going up in flames, and Ben sighs.

“Was that _really_ necessary?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to fuck when they got back to the ship, but Ben was Not Feeling It, Thanks.
> 
> I almost forgot! I have another [TUNE](https://youtu.be/I_HvEGNR84Y) for you. I stumbled up that one the other day, and it's honestly everything I've been looking for. If it's not Adelfos' theme, I don't know what is.


	18. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like angst and also porn, because there is literally nothing else in this chapter.

This is not the first time Anakin has woken, sweaty and panting, rutting into the sheets like a hormonal teenager. His skin tingles with the brush of phantom fingers, burns as imagined lips ghost their way up his spine. A ragged moan is torn from his throat as he lays face-down on the _Negotiator’s_ cot, cursing the pleasure-pain that comes with grinding his aching cock down into the mattress. In his youth, he would have taken himself in hand and dealt with the issue as soon as he woke. Not now, though. He’s tried once or twice since his return to this body, but had been unable to find completion.

As a Padawan, he’d had thoughts of Padme to get him through these situations. Always Padme. He’d lay in the dark of the apartment he shared with his Master and picture the soft swell of her breasts, the gentle curve of her hips. He’d imagine the noises she’d make in her pleasure, and the way she’d writhe beneath him as he brought her to the edge and pushed her over into completion. As a boy, Padme had been his everything, and the images had come easy.

But the Anakin Skywalker that lies here now, desperate for a release just beyond his reach, is not the same boy who married his childhood sweetheart. This Anakin Skywalker mourned his wife’s passing for twenty years and gave his life to protect their children—the last, precious pieces of her that remained in all the galaxy. To imagine her now, the way his boyhood self once had, feels dirty; it feels like he’s desecrating something sacred.

Now, he doesn’t know what to imagine.

These scenes that flash behind his eyes whenever he dares to close them are not like what he had with Padme. With Padme it was soft, gentle touches and whispered words as they brought each other to completion in a mutual desire for intimacy. This is the furthest thing from that. What haunts Anakin’s dreams is primal and rough; what haunts Anakin’s dreams is a claiming. He feels teeth break skin, fingers digging into his hips, the sharp sting of pulled hair. He’s always surprised when he wakes to find his skin smooth and unmarked, free from bites and bruises. It always feels so real.

Anakin releases a whine as he rolls over, peeling himself from the sheets and wincing at the sensation of cooling sweat sticking the fabric to his skin. He is resigned to the fact that there is probably a cold shower in his future. There have been a lot of them, in these weeks since his return.

He honestly doesn’t know where these dreams are coming from. Even in his boyhood fantasies, he’d never had a penchant for violence in the bedroom. Anakin was raised in a culture where people had very little, and what they did have was treated as sacred; Anakin’s possessions since leaving Tattooine were treated no differently. Even when traipsing the line between the Light Side and the Dark, one precarious step away from falling to the Sith, he’d treated Padme like a priceless treasure. He’d held her as though she might shatter if he applied too much force; he’d smiled at Ben before the man left for Utapau and relished in the Master’s pride in him. It is how he was so easily convinced there was nothing left in him to save—how he succumbed so easily to Sidious’ command. Anakin the Once-Slave would have never handled the few precious things in his life as roughly as he did Padme and Ben that day on Mustafar.

When he closes his eyes and reaches out with his senses—what of them that aren’t currently overloaded with his pent-up sex drive, at least—he can feel the steady, rhythmic hum of the hyperdrive. They still haven’t reached Coruscant, then. It always seems strange to Anakin that they would set up their home base so close to the Jedi Temple. It doesn’t make sense that the Jedi never find them; they can see it from Ben’s expensive apartment, for Force sake. Even when Anakin was alone, he never ran into hostile Knights on the streets.

He’d asked Ben about it once, and received an enthusiastic lecture about the Jedi Temple’s construction, which had apparently been done directly atop the remains of a Sith shrine to commemorate their victory over the forces of the Dark. The bits and pieces of the shrine that remain, deep within the bowels of the Temple, secrete a potent Darkness that clouds the Jedi’s senses and aids in muting their presence naturally. It’s also the main component of the elaborate shielding both Ben and Sidious employ, keeping them all but invisible to their adversaries. Anakin sometimes wonders if, when Ben began studying the Sith following Qui-Gon’s death, his Master knew somewhere that he would eventually Fall and was just getting a head start on learning what he would need.

Anakin also wonders how stupid the Jedi of old could have possibly been, to build their temple upon an epicenter of Dark power.

Speaking of his Master, he reaches along the Bond in search of Ben, and finds the man still in the cockpit. His shields are up, but that isn’t entirely a surprise. With the wet dreams Anakin’s been having, he can’t blame the man from wanting to keep his Apprentice’s mind separate from his own. He’s making _himself_ uncomfortable with the content of his dreams; he can’t imagine what experiencing that must be like from Ben’s perspective.

Ben returns the gentle tap Anakin makes against his mental shields, indicating that the older man is still awake, and the Apprentice finally deigns to roll out of the sweaty sheets. There’s still some time before they reach Coruscant, and they have some things they need to discuss before they get distracted with another mission. Namely: Ben kissing him.

Of all the things his Master could have done that night in the cockpit, kissing Anakin certainly hadn’t been an action he expected. He’d been quite convinced that his Master will still holding that torch for Satine that he’d carried through most of the Clone Wars. Ben, as far as Anakin remembered, had never expressed any interest in his student—certainly not for lack of trying on Anakin’s part. In his padawan years, before his marriage to Padme, raging hormones and a desperate need for validation had instigated several clumsy attempts to seduce the Master. All of them had been gently but unquestionably rebuffed, so to say that the man’s apparent interest in him now is a surprise would be an understatement.

He pads, barefooted and bare-chested, to cockpit, and finds the Master waiting. Ben is settled in the pilot’s chair, feet up on the console and a datapad in hand. It’s a familiar pose—one that freezes him in the doorway and sends a phantom pain shooting down Anakin’s neck as he’s viscerally reminded of his attempt at conversation that night on Dathomir. There is no hostility in the Master’s posture, though, and he gestures invitingly with his free hand to the copilot’s chair. Anakin takes this as a sign that his company is welcome, and that the other Sith is unlikely to attempt to strangle him tonight.

“Anakin,” Ben greets, setting his datapad on the console and spinning to face the Apprentice while he settles in the copilot’s chair. “I didn’t realize you were still awake.”

“Was having a hard time sleeping,” Anakin admits with a weak smile. The cockpit is colder than the crew quarters had been; he can feel goosebumps rising on his already sweat-chilled skin.

The Master frowns, concerned. “Are you having nightmares again? Would you like to talk about them?”

“I’m not having nightmares, but I would like to talk to you about something…” At Ben’s raised brow, he clears his throat and continues. “The other night, after Krell, you… um… you kissed me? And we haven’t really talked about it since then…”

Ben stares at him, perhaps a bit blankly, as though he doesn’t quite understand what Anakin’s saying. “I was unaware there was anything we needed to talk about.” Anakin sputters at his answer, and Ben continues on. “I would have thought a kiss would have been quite self-explanatory, really.”

“You—you can’t just kiss me!” The Apprentice squawks. “Especially when you aren’t even interested in me!”

“What makes you think I’m not interested in you, Anakin?”

“You! You do! You did! I tried for years to seduce you, and you always just brushed me off!”

The Master snorts, rolling his eyes. “That was quite different.”

“How was it different!?”

“You were a child, Anakin.” Ben drawls, as though all of this should be self-explanatory. “What’s more, you were a child in my custody. If I had made any attempt on you then, we would have certainly been dismissed from the Order at the least. I very well may have been brought up on charges for abusing a position of power and taking advantage of you. By the time you were knighted, you were quite smitten with the Senator—”

“Don’t you bring my wife into this—”

“—and the galaxy was embroiled in civil war like likes of which hadn’t been seen since the last Sith War. It was hardly the time to be negotiating a relationship, when either of us could be killed on any given day. After that, you slaughtered the entirety of the Jedi Order and I exiled myself to Tattooine, so there certainly wasn’t any chance of something happening _then_ …”

“But what makes now any different?” Anakin asks. If he sounds a little confused, a little desperate, it’s because he is. “We’re still at war—with Sidious at least. I’m still your student. What makes now any better a time than it was back then? How is not a _worse_ time? We have no allies, minimal resources, no— _mnph_!”

Anakin doesn’t get to finish his thought because Ben has leaned forward in his chair and caught the Apprentice by the chin, dragging him to the edge of his own seat and pressing his lips to Anakin’s. The second unexpected kiss completely defeats the purpose of this conversation.

“What’s different,” Ben growls when he pulls away, only far enough to look the younger Sith in the eye, “is that I no longer _care_ about any of those thing. I want you; I have _always_ wanted you. And it’s become apparent that trying to pretend otherwise will do us both more harm than good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? That night, when you kissed me, you could have just _said_. You didn’t—you just walked off and left me in the cockpit like an idiot. We could have avoided all of this, if you’d only said—”

“This,” Ben says, finally releasing Anakin’s chin to gesture between the two of them, “is not a decision to make lightly. You were a mess, that night. To bring it up then would have been... unfair. Both to you, and to me. I could not allow you to make a decision in haste, especially if you were to regret it when you settled.”

Anakin sighs, leaning forward to press his forehead to Ben’s while he thinks. His Master’s hands flutter up to rest on either side of his face, and the Dark Side purrs wonderful promises in his ear. “And if I were to make a decision now? Would you accept it?”

“I will respect any decision you make in regards to how we move forward,” Ben replies.

“Good,” Anakin breathes, and leans down to catch his Master’s lips.

He takes Ben by the shoulders, pressing the older Sith back into the pilot’s seat and rising from his own. This time, when he crawls into the man’s lap, he is not met with reprimand. Ben’s hands settle on his hips and Anakin swallows the man’s low groan as they kiss languidly—as though they are the only beings in the universe. The Dark Side swells around them, enveloping them in its heat. The sensations from Anakin’s dreams, the desperate need for release, comes roaring back, pooling low in his gut. He tangles his hands in Ben’s hair, forcing it to disarray, licking into his Master’s mouth.

 _Peace is a lie, there is only passion_.

The words skitter through Anakin’s mind as Ben breaks the kiss, tilting his head to watch through half-lidded, golden eyes as runs his hands up Anakin’s chest, exploring the exposed skin. He maps scars, new and old, with his fingertips and thumbs at peaked nipples, smirking when Anakin shudders at the contact before leaning forward to take one into his mouth. He worries the nub with teeth and tongue, his hand plucking at the other, ripping a moan from the Apprentice’s throat.

This is passion, he knows, but it is also peace. Here, in the safety of his Master’s arms, he is centered, balanced. There is no war, no Jedi, no Sith; there is only him, and his Master, and the Force that flows around them.

He’s panting, he knows, loud even to his own ears as Ben’s attention moves from Anakin’s nipples to his throat, mouthing at the thin skin. The Master’s hands trail down to Anakin’s ass, groaning appreciatively as he palms it, pulling the Apprentice firmly down into his lap as he rocks up against him. Lewd promises spill from Ben’s lips, whispered fervently into the column of Anakin’s throat.

“Please,” Anakin keens, and he’s not quite sure what he’s asking for. “Master…”

Ben seems to know, though. He always knows what Anakin needs. The Master fumbles with the hem of Anakin’s sleep pants, shoving it down far enough to draw out the younger Sith’s aching erection. Anakin nearly comes at the first brush of the man’s warm palm against his length, at his Force presence mingling with his Master’s, stopped only when Ben squeezes harshly around the base.

“Not yet, Apprentice,” Ben hisses, and Anakin nods weakly.

Apparently satisfied with that response, Ben loosens his grip and reaches for his own pants, freeing his cock from its confines. It’s a little bit shorter than Anakin’s, but definitely thicker; he absently wonders what it would feel like on his tongue.

When Ben takes them both in hand, lining them up and stroking gently up and down their lengths, Anakin knows immediately that he’s not going to last, no matter what his Master says. He clutches frantically at the older man’s shoulders, whimpering helplessly at the silky-slick glide of skin against skin; at the heat of Ben’s palm wrapped around him; at the breathless noises his Master makes a he returns to marking Anakin’s throat with teeth and tongue. Their Force Bond is a feedback loop of pleasure.

“I can’t—” Anakin whines, “I have to—”

“It’s ok,” Ben murmurs. “You can come now. Come on, dear one. Come for me.”

Anakin does, not a heartbeat later, spilling over Ben’s hand and tunic. The Master doesn’t care, following a few strokes later. Ben bites down hard on Anakin’s shoulder when he comes, and Anakin knows he’ll be wearing an imprint of the man’s teeth for days. Mindless of the mess between them, Anakin slumps against his Master’s chest, riding out the afterglow in soft shudders as Ben’s sticky hands glide soothingly up and down his spine.

 _This is passion_ , he thinks again, _but this is also peace_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they bang.  
> I don't write the sexy scenes too terribly often, and as a person on ace spectrum my knowledge of these things is quite limited. Hope it turned out alright~


	19. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon has a face-to-face with the man who haunts his dreams. Sorta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't beta's this very much, so my apologies for any glaring typos.

Qui-Gon flees his padawan’s presence as soon as they arrive back at their apartment, his head a mess of unanswered questions. Locking himself in his chambers, he settles down an in attempt to meditate. Obi-Wan’s betrayal tears at his heart, however unintentional it was. The fact that his padawan had kept more secrets from him when they promised each other honestly stung more than he cared to admit. He tries to release the emotions into the Force, but they sink claws into his flesh and refuse to release their grip.

Along the Bond, he can feel Obi-Wan’s own distress at the situation. His guilt, his sorrow, his pain. The padawan is doing his best to keep it from his Master, but his shields are not up to their usual standard under the duress of emotion. Qui-Gon can sense him in his quarters, can feel him desperately grasping for the comfort of the Force, and abruptly decides that he can’t stay in the apartment a moment longer. He needs space to think, to breathe, to work out these emotions that plague him.

Snagging his cloak from its place by the door, he doesn’t bother to inform his padawan where he’s going before he slips out. If Obi-Wan needs him, he can be reached through the Bond. While there is a small part of Qui-Gon that wishes to close it off while he thinks, the rest of him knows that to shut Obi-Wan out would only make this situation worse. They’ve been walking on transparisteel since their initial encounter with Vader on Malachor. Secrets and lies have torn them apart, as is the nature of the Dark Side. Now that everything, and Qui-Gon knows that this is _everything_ , is out on the table, perhaps they can begin to repair the damage that’s been done.

He wanders the halls of the temple with no destination in mind. Knights and fellow Masters offer him polite, if jilted, greeting as he passes. Padawans and a small group of initiates skitter out of his path, avoiding him entirely. Obi-Wan had mentioned similar behavior toward him in an earlier conversation. Apparently, news of their censure has reached even the smallest of ears.

When he steps through the door of the Temple Gardens, Qui-Gon is unsurprised that his feet have led him there. This place, an epicenter of the Living Force, has always been a balm to his frazzled nerves. As a youngling and as a padawan, he’d often gotten in trouble for sneaking out and passing hours here, just breathing in the scent of the flora and reveling in the feel of the Force around him. It is a trend that continued into his Knighthood, though without with the getting-in-trouble part. Even in his Mastery, he can always count on the gardens to clear his head.

It’s later in the evening, so there are very few souls in the gardens to disturb him. Initiates and padawans have already been rounded up and sent to bed for the night by their respective guardians, leaving only the few Knights and Masters who, like Qui-Gon, take solace in the thrum of life. They are scattered sparsely through the massive space, and it is relatively easy to find a secluded to area in which to mediate. The only question that remains is: what should he meditate on?

His emotions are the obvious answer and cause of his original flight from the apartment, but there is more to address than his feelings. Obi-Wan’s confession had brought with it a startling realization: Lord Adelfos is the second time traveler spoken of in the Sith prophecy. This entire time, answers to his questions have been available to him, if only he were to reach out and grab them. And he has so many questions. Who is this man who fell from the Light? Who would defy not one but two prophecies with his fall? Who commands perhaps the most powerful Force user in history with such ease? Yes, he decides as he slips from his physical form and loses himself in the currents of the Force, this is what he wants to meditate on.

Reaching out, the Jedi Master runs careful fingers along the length of his and Obi-Wan’s Bond, seeking out the place where Adelfos’ presence had taken root. It’s easy to find, the shield around it vastly different than those between himself and Obi-Wan. They tower far above him, strong and smooth as durasteel. Some of it is of his construction, some of it Adelfos’. He imagines the man hadn’t taken kindly to sharing his dreams, and that the Sith’s attempt at sealing the Bond was as much for his own sake as it was for Qui-Gon’s.

Lowering his own half of the shielding, he raps gently at those which belong to Adelfos. He receives no answer, but gets the curious sensation of being watched from the other side. There is no sign that Adelfos intends to engage him, though, so he taps harder on the mental wall. Still there is no answer. It’s quite frustrating, he must admit. He has been plagued by the man’s night terrors for months—the least Adelfos can do is make the time to talk to him.

Qui-Gon throws himself against the shields experimentally, expecting resistance, and is understandably startled when they drop, sending him careening into an unfamiliar darkness. It seems strange to experience sensation of falling when you have no corporeal form, but that doesn’t stop it from happening. It also doesn’t stop him from feeling it when he makes contact with something hard, knocking breath from his lungs in a soft _oof_.

Cracking open his eyes, Qui-Gon finds himself not back in the temple, but on the floor of a small, clay hut. The air is dry and hot, the stone under his cheek warm even out of direct line of the sun. Sand tickles his nose, sending him into a sneezing fit before he’s even managed to right himself from the splayed position he landed in. Already he can feel himself sweating through his robes. Qui-Gon has never detested a planet simply for its climate, but he thinks that he might make an exception for this one. Wherever it is.

“It may be best for you to get up off the floor,” an unfamiliar voice calls, and Qui-Gon jolts upright in search of its source.

There is a man standing in what may pass as a kitchen in the small hut, glancing over his shoulder at Qui-Gon while he waits for a kettle to boil. Sad blue eyes take in the Jedi Master, the bags beneath them deep and dark, as though their owner hasn’t slept well in a great many years. His face is lined with age, hair greyed and receding, but there is something about the way he moves that makes Qui-Gon think he’s not quite as old as he seems.

“It seems that even here, you can’t be free from the sand,” his host continues with a wry chuckle, pulling the whistling kettle from the heat pad.

Qui-Gon rises to his feet and moves to the small table nearby, on the surface of which two teacups rest. They’re a strange sight, fine and delicate compared to the ruggedness of the rest of the room. Even the kettle in the man’s hands is dented and worn with age and use. His host pours the contents of the kettle into their cups, and the scent of Sencha Green wafts up to the Jedi Master.

Picking up the cup, he holds it between his hands and asks, “And where, exactly, is here?”

“We’re nowhere, and everywhere,” his host says cryptically, settling into the chair across the table.

“Is this the Force?” Qui-Gon guesses.

It earns him a twitch of lips that could almost be a smile beneath the scruff of an unkempt beard. “You are correct. This is a manifestation of my psyche. I thought it might be easier for you to understand.”

“We’re in the Bond?” The Jedi Master asks, gaze flickering about the room again before setting on his host. “You’re Lord Adelfos?”

A wry grin, briefly hidden when the man sips at his tea. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Qui-Gon takes in the man before him: tattered robes hanging from a malnourished form, worn far beyond his age by weather and circumstance. The Sith Master looks back at him, wearing a politely expectant expression. There is an intelligence behind his eyes, the calm façade of a seasoned politician. It makes the Jedi Master’s skin crawl. He hates politicians.

“You’re just… not what I expected,” Qui-Gon confesses and sips at his own tea, only to sputter and choke on the metallic taste and grainy texture. Obviously whatever water Adelfos used had not been filtered properly. Scowling into the cup, he sets it back on the table as though it were a venomous serpent he was afraid might strike him. “The description of you I’ve been given is quite different than how you appear now.”

Adelfos makes a considering noise, looking down at his aged form. Abruptly, it shimmers, morphing before Qui-Gon’s eyes into that of a man a good twenty years younger. Draped in elegant black robes, Adelfos leans back in his chair and sprawls like a king upon his throne. His golden eyes shimmer with amusement at the Jedi’s startled expression.

“Is this better?” The Sith Master drawls. “Or, perhaps…” His form changes again, this time into the young Knight from Qui-Gon’s dreams—the one with the shaggy auburn hair and the patchy scruff of a growing beard. “You would be more comfortable if I looked like this?”

“What did you look like as a Master?” Qui-Gon asks, curiosity getting the better of him. “A Jedi Master, I mean?”

The Sith frowns at the implied request, but shifts nonetheless.

When he’s finished, he looks about the same as he did in his Sith form, if a bit more worn around the edges. Tan Jedi robes hang over a well-muscled figure, and atop them rests scuffed armor, turned off-white with age and abuse. The Jedi Order’s insignia is emblazoned on the man’s pauldron in golden paint. His eyes flicker from blue to gold to blue again, finally settling on their natural shade. Adelfos shifts under Qui-Gon’s scrutiny, uncomfortable in his own skin.

“It is nice to properly meet you, Master,” the Jedi teases.

“Councilor, Master Jinn,” Adelfos corrects. “If I am to stay in this form, you should at least address me properly.”

If Qui-Gon were drinking his repulsive tea, he probably would have choked on it. “Councilor?”

“The youngest in nearly a hundred years,” the Sith confirms. “I earned many such titles, after my Master’s death...”

“Your Master would have been proud.”

What was meant to be a consolation earns him a derisive snort. “My Master would have been mortified. A member of his lineage on the Council? He would have considered it an insult to his teachings.”

Qui-Gon chuckles at the man’s scornful tone. “Not much of a rule follower, was he?”

“Oh, no. Most considered him quite the renegade…” Adelfos sighs, momentarily lost in memory. Qui-Gon cringes when the man continues to sip at his terrible tea. “If I may ask, Master Jinn, the reason you reached out to me today? You have kept our bond quite firmly sealed following the events at Dathomir.”

“My padawan and I had a rather revealing conversation this afternoon,” the Jedi Master admits. “We hadn’t realized just who you were—where you’d come from—until then. I thought that perhaps, if I were able to speak to you, I might better understand what has come to pass.”

“You experiencing my memories in your dreams. Is that not enough?”

“Your memories only show me a part of the puzzle, Councilor. They are images out of context—snippets from a life that is much more that what I see.”

Adelfos does not answer him.

Shadow falls across the room, and Qui-Gon glances over to the window that had once been supplying light in search of the darkness’ cause. He nearly startles out of his chair at the sight of a large, molten eye where there had once been desert landscape. It takes up most of the window, the rest filled by inky-back scales, as it peers into the room. The Jedi Master is not sure how he missed the beast’s approach, but its rhythmic, hissing breath thunders in the small space. Fumbling for his lightsaber, he finds that it has disappeared from his belt.

“There’s no need for that, Master Jinn,” Adelfos drawls. “He’s only curious.”

“Is that,” Qui-Gon gapes, “Lord Vader?”

“I suspect he sensed this communication through our own Bond; there is little we can hide from each other these days.”

Pushing himself from the chair, Adelfos crosses the room and draws the blinds, earning an unhappy rumble from the beast outside the window. He gestures for Jinn to follow after that, making his way to the door. Qui-Gon follows hesitantly, uncertain about leaving the relative safety of the hut and facing the beast that is Vader. While he knows rationally that this is nothing more than the Force given shape, a creation of Adelfos’ mind, the knowledge does little to ease his distress.

Adelfos, who holds no such reservations, strides confidently up to the beast and lays a hand upon its massive snout. Here in this space, Vader has taken the form of a Greater Krayt Dagon: nearly a hundred meters of scales black as pitch. He’s curled around the little hut, eyeing them with a curiosity that seems out of place in such a malevolent creature. Qui-Gon can feel every puff of the beast’s breath, hotter even than the planet’s twin suns.

“I’m afraid I can be of little use to you, Master Jinn,” Adelfos sighs, his form shifting back to that of the Sith as he trails black-gloved hands along the beast’s muzzle. His black robes, much like Vader’s scales, stand out amongst the soft tans of the landscape. “There is far more to what you ask than you realize.”

“Please, if you only just—”

“No!” Adelfos snaps. “I cannot answer your questions. Now is not the time; there are some secrets you are not yet ready to hear.”

Qui-Gon can feel his teeth grinding with frustration. “And when will I be ready? When will you stop with this game of cloak and dagger? If you only speak to me, perhaps I can make the Council understand—”

“The Council will NEVER understand!” Adelfos roars, echoed by Vader’s deep, threatening growl. The Jedi Master flinches as the force of their combined rage washes over him. “Now, I think it best you take your leave, Master Jinn. I have other business to attend to.”

With a sweep of Vader’s massive tail, Qui-Gon finds himself thrown away from Adelfos, across the sand, out of the vision. He tumbles from the Bond and back into his own body, the dragon’s onyx scales thrown up like a shield to stop him from reengaging the connection. The Jedi’s Bond with Adelfos is little more than string compared to the durasteel chain that links Master and Apprentice; Vader’s connection can easily overpower his own if he wishes to keep the Jedi Master away.

Opening his eyes, he is back in the temple once more. The soothing lull of life in the Gardens helps to calm his thundering heart and ease the process of releasing his lingering fear to the Force. While he did not gain what he wanted from his brief meeting with Adelfos, he did learn a few new things. Primarily, that there is more to this story than previously assumed. The fall of a Knight is one thing, but for a Councilor to forsake the Light?

There is more to the story, and Qui-Gon Jinn will uncover its secrets if it’s the last thing he does.

* * *

 

Ben surfaces to the sensation of his Apprentice pressed along his back. Like this, he can feel each rise and fall of Anakin’s chest as though it is his own lungs drawing breath. Anakin’s arms are wrapped around Ben’s shoulders, his chin resting atop his Master’s head. Their knees ache from kneeling on the apartment’s hardwood floors, and their minds are abuzz with things they should discuss. Neither says anything for a time, however, looking out on the night traffic of Coruscant’s upper levels while they work through their thoughts on their own.

“You’re going to have to tell him eventually,” Anakin finally whispers, seeming loud in the silence of the room. “You can’t hide it forever.”

“He’s been through so much; I’m afraid that knowing will break him,” Ben confesses.

Anakin sighs, squeezing his Master reassuringly. “Sometimes you have to break to be put together stronger. Just look at us,” the Apprentice argues.

“And if he can’t piece himself back together? What then? I’ve already borne the weight of his loss once, Anakin. I don’t know if I could take it if I failed him again.”

“I don’t know what we’d do if he broke,” Anakin admits, “but I do know that I’ll be there for you. I also know that defeating Sidious is going to take all of our focus. If you’re spending half your time worrying about being found out, we’re going to lose. Whatever happens with Qui-Gon will happen, and I will be there for you every step of the way.” The Apprentice drops a kiss to the top of his Master’s head. “I’m stronger than I was the first time you lost him; I can help you carry the weight. I’m not going to leave you again.”

Ben’s hands rise to gently grip his Apprentice’s arms where they’re wrapped around him. “Thank you, Anakin.”


	20. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another.

“ _Another bombing rocks the Trade Federation today, becoming the fourth attack in as many weeks. This time, the bombing occurred at not one of their factories or offices, but at the Senate building itself. The offices of Nemoidian representative Newt Gunray went up in flames this afternoon when an explosive device was remotely detonated. Fortunately, the representative and his staff had been called away on an emergency meeting earlier this morning. So far there have been no casualties, though several bystanders were injured by the falling rubble. The suspects, two Force users, are still at large. Coruscant Security Forces are investigating the scene, attempting to uncover how the suspects infiltrated the building, and why—_ ”

Obi-Wan flicks off the holo with a jerky motion, casting the room into silence. He’s been alone in the apartment for the better part of the day, Qui-Gon called away to a meeting with the Council in the early hours. The padawan had wanted to go, but his Master requested he stay in the apartment for now, with everything that’s happening.

While tensions between Obi-Wan and his Master have settled since their fallout in the library, hostilities between them and the rest of the Order have escalated in the passing weeks. All of the Jedi, down to the youngest of the lot, know the role Master Jinn and his padawan played in the discovery of the Sith. For all the Council’s attempts at secret-keeping, you would be hard-pressed to find a soul that doesn’t know the outcome of their attempt to capture the Sith on Dathomir. Now, with the threat of these bombings lingering over their heads, there is an underlying current of blame aimed at the Master-Padawan pair.

Or sometimes, it was not quite so underlying, as Obi-Wan was unfortunate enough to discover a few nights prior. He’d gone to dinner, expecting the usual glares and whispers that’d become the norm after news of the Geonisian factories reached their ears, except it hadn’t quite gone that way. Dinner passed uneventfully, but on the way back he’d found himself cornered in an empty hall by a group of slightly older padawans. _Sith, traitor, Apprentice_ , they hissed, falling upon him like a pack of anooba. It was only by the grace of the Force that another Master had come wandering down the hall, scattering the group as they rushed to avoid getting caught tormenting one of their peers.

Limping back to the apartment, Obi-Wan was met at the door by a panicked Qui-Gon, who’d felt his distress through the Bond. The Master ushered him back into the apartment, sitting him on the couch and gently cleaning the blood from his face with a wet rag. Afterward, with a warm cup of tea in his hand, Qui-Gon had bundled him into his arms and murmured soothing words as he hiccupped his way through a recounting of the incident.

Obi-Wan hasn’t left the apartment since that night. The Council has put both he and his Master under temporary confinement to quarters on top of their censure and restriction to the planet’s surface. Supposedly it’s for their own safety, but Obi-Wan can’t help but feel like they’re just brushing them under the rug like a shameful secret. Qui-Gon hadn’t even been able to walk to his meeting alone, instead escorted there by Master Plo, who’d returned to Coruscant several weeks ago and hadn’t left again. The Kel Dor Master suspects the Sith pair is hiding on the planet, though it’s anyone’s guess where. Jedi contacts in the undercity have turned up nothing.

The door to their quarters beeps, sliding open to reveal Master Jinn and Master Koon. The pair enter the room side by side, heads bowed together in quiet conversation. Master Koon has become a frequent visitor to the Jinn-Kenobi residence over the last month, often spending hours in discussion of the Sith with Qui-Gon. Master Jinn’s visions have lessened since his encounter with Lord Adelfos in the Force, likely due to him finally, properly acknowledging the Bond they share with the Sith. Now that the Bond isn’t allowed to run wild, while the visions haven’t disappeared completely, they are more manageable; he hasn’t woken screaming in the night for quite some time.

“How did the meeting go, Master?” Obi-Wan asks over his shoulder, ignoring the uncomfortable pull of his bruising

Qui-Gon beams at him. “Pack your travelling cloak, Padawan, we’re getting out of here. The Council has an assignment for us.”

“Really?”

“Yes really, Obi-Wan,” the Master chuckles, dropping his hands onto the padawan’s shoulders and squeezing. “We’re being deployed to Alderaan for a diplomatic mission. Master Koon will be joining us.”

“The Queen is hosting a gala, and prominent members of the Trade Federation will be in attendance,” Master Plo explains. “In light of the recent series of bombings, our presence has been requested. We will be there to provide addition security and forestall an attack, should an attempt be made.”

“But why us?” Obi-Wan asks. “I thought the Council didn’t want us anywhere near the Sith?”

Plo sighs. “This is true; your encounters with the Sith pair have had unfortunate repercussions in the past. Unfortunately, we three are the only ones who have ever interacted with them, beyond Dooku, and are the only ones who stand a chance at picking them out of a crowd. Especially since the Queen’s gala is to be a masquerade.”

The mention of Dooku makes both Obi-Wan and his Master flinch, the man’s defection from the Order still a sore subject. Notice of the Master’s resignation had arrived by messenger droid several days after the library incident, and was the main instigator in their work to repair their own Bond. With one less ally among the Jedi, they couldn’t afford to be fighting each other, especially when they needed the support through their latest loss. The once-Master has now taken his rightful title as Count of Serenno, and is a major player in the political arena. He will likely be at the event; the thought makes Obi-Wan’s stomach churn nervously.

“A masquerade,” Qui-Gon sighs. “As if apprehending two Sith on their own isn’t difficult enough.”

Plo hums in agreement with the sentiment, and the two Masters meander over to the kitchen table to continue their discussion. Obi-Wan bites on his lower lip as he thinks, turning a question over in his mind as he considers whether or not to ask. He hasn’t made any requests during his time confined to quarters. Sure they will not deny him, just this once? Not after everything?

“Masters,” he finally works up the courage to ask, interrupting their conversation, “may I go and see Padawan Vos before we ship out?”

Both Masters look at him, then glance at one another. Obi-Wan is not the only Padawan currently under confinement. Quinlan hasn’t been allowed to leave his own quarters since the incident with Maul’s body. Despite the labor of the Temple’s best mind healers, they’ve so far been unsuccessful in driving the Darkness that has infected the other padawan away. It was only by the Council’s good graces and Tholme’s pleading that he’s even allowed in his quarters instead of being locked away in the cells of the lower levels. In the early days of their censure, Obi-Wan had visited Vos as frequently as he was allowed. Since the altercation with the other padawans and consequently his own confinement, he hasn’t been able to see his friend at all. He’d like to update Quinlan about his situation before they’re sent out; the other padawan must be lonely.

“I will walk you over after dinner, if Master Tholme agrees,” Master Koon offers, then turns back to his conversation. Obi-Wan would prefer Master Jinn’s company on the grounds that he’s Master Jinn’s student, but knows that will never happen. Even Qui-Gon isn’t allowed out of the apartment unattended.

 _Up for some company?_ Obi-Wan punches into the text interface of his comm unit. The voice and video features have been disabled on Quin’s, as though that will prevent him from getting up to anything nefarious should he decide to do so.

 _Lemme ask boss man,_ Quin responds. A few minutes later, the comm pings again. _Boss man says it’s cool_.

 _Ok. Plo’s walking me over after dinner_.

 _I’ll be here_ , Vos sends. It’s probably meant as a joke, because where else would he be, but makes Obi-Wan feel terrible nonetheless. Quinlan, like him, doesn’t really take well to being cooped up. At least Obi-Wan had free range of the temple up until this week.

* * *

 

Plo, as promised, takes him over to the Tholme-Vos apartment after dinner. Obi-Wan can feel the judgmental stares of the Jedi they pass, and can hear their stage whispers as they call him names. It’s a relief when Tholme ushers the pair through the door, casting wary looks at the Jedi in the halls. If there was any Master who could understand what he and Qui-Gon are going through at the moment, it was Tholme.

If any other Master were to watch their student fall, they would undoubtedly throw the padawan under the speeder for the sake of the Code and their reputation; even Qui-Gon had done it when his second padawan, Xanatos, fell from the Light. Not Tholme, though. Through all the judgement and scrutiny of his fellow Jedi, Tholme had not lost faith in Quinlan. He’d stood, and still stands, at his padawan’s side, holding out hope that the healers will one day be able to undo what has been done. Obi-Wan already had immense respect for Tholme for taking on a student who was equally troublesome as Obi-Wan in the crèche. That respect has only grown since.

Quinlan is seated on the couch in the apartment’s sitting area. Obi-Wan means to greet him, but is beaten to the punch when the older padawan exclaims, “Sweet Force, Obi! You look like bantha poodoo!”

Yes, Obi-Wan supposes he does. He’s seen himself in the mirror recently—a mess of cuts and healing, yellowed bruises. Quin is across the room in a heartbeat, Obi-Wan’s face between his hands as he inspects the worst of the damage.

“What in the stars happened?”

“It’s nothing, Quin,” Obi-Wan huffs, attempt to bat the other boy’s hands away, to no avail.

“No! You’ve been stuck in the temple for the last month, and then suddenly you’re confined to quarters for a week and show up at my door looking like this? Obi, please tell me what’s going on.”

There’s a worry in the older boy’s voice that has him spilling the story despite his desire not to do so. He tells Quin what happened, about being cornered and insulted and beaten by those he’s supposed to call comrades. About how even though he surrendered the names of those other padawans, he doubts they’ve faced much punishment for their actions, as their Masters are just as angry and scared as they are. About how he and Qui-Gon are not allowed out in the temple alone anymore. There is more sorrow in Quinlan’s eyes, turned a sickly yellow since the incident with Maul’s body, than there was in the eyes of any of the Masters who offered apologies for their students’ actions.

“I wish they’d let me out,” Quin growls, wrapping his arms tight around Obi-Wan’s smaller frame, “I’d show those sleemos what for.”

“And get in even more trouble?” Obi-Wan scoffs, pushing his way out of Vos’ arms. “Come on, Quin. I know you’re not that stupid.”

Quinlan sighs, directing the younger boy toward the couch. “Alright, alright. Cool it, Kenobi.”

They settle on the cushions as the Masters make their way into the kitchen to give the pair some privacy and discuss whatever it is Masters discuss when one of them is under house arrest and the other is on the Council that put him there.

“So what’s up, Obi?” Quin asks. “What reason have you for begging Koon to visit my illustrious prison this evening?”

“Qui-Gon and I are getting sent out on assignment.”

“Get out! For real? They’re finally letting you off the chain?”

“Yeah. We’re scheduled to leave for a diplomatic mission to Alderaan in the morning. Master Plo is coming with us, so we won’t be completely alone, but we’re finally getting out of the temple.”

“Man, you must be so excited…” Quin chuckles, only to cut himself off when he sees the look on Obi-Wan’s face. “…or not?”

“I just…” Obi-Wan begins, dropping his voice and flashing a glance toward the kitchen. “I can’t help but think the Council is trying to get rid of us. Like they’re sending us off-planet so they don’t have to deal with everything that’s going on.”

“I wish they’d send me and Tholme off-planet,” the older boy scoffs. “Better to die out there than wither away in here.”

Obi-Wan… supposes that’s true. If given the option, he’d rather be out among the wilds of space, too. That doesn’t change his apprehension over this mission. “The Council thinks we’re going to run into the Sith again. They haven’t outright said it, but that’s what we’re going there for—to watch out and apprehend them if we can.”

Vos flinches slightly at his words. He hadn’t meant them as a rebuke, but he can understand how the older padawan came to that conclusion. His relationship with Qui-Gon is only just beginning to patch itself back up after everything that’s happened, and to encounter the Sith again could shred it back into pieces. It’s something Quinlan has never needed to worry about, and something Obi-Wan worries on constantly.

“I’m sorry, man. I know how hard this Sith deal is for you…”

“It’s fine, Quin,” Obi-Wan sighs. “I know what you meant. Anyways, I just wanted to let you know that we’re going off-planet. We’re supposed to come straight back after the gala, but you know how my last few missions have gone…”

“Obi-Wan,” Plo calls, emerging from the kitchen. “Come along, padawan. We have to prepare for the mission.”

“Yes, Master Koon,” the padawan responds, pushing himself up from the couch and following the Master out the door.

* * *

 

“So? What do you think?” Anakin asks, strutting from what is now the spare bedroom and into the one he’s been sharing with Ben since their return to Coruscant. The Sith Master, seated in front of his desk and hunched over his papers, glances up from briefly, than does a double-take.

Anakin leans casually against the door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest and grinning smugly at his partner. The Apprentice’s new tunic is a deep black, cut elegantly to emphasize the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Unlike traditional Jedi garb, the sleeves of Anakin’s robes do not hang around his forearms, but instead cling to his skin, loose enough that they will not cause problems in combat but tight enough to accentuate the Apprentice’s lean strength. New boots shine, unscuffed, over top of black pants; a cape reminiscent to the one he wore as Vader in his past life hangs over one shoulder. As Anakin stands there in the doorway, wearing the expression of a cat that ate the canary, Ben can’t help but congratulate himself on his excellent choices.

“You look stunning,” Ben praises, enjoying the way his Apprentice stands a bit taller at his words, a soft flush rising in his cheeks. “I’ll be chasing away your suitors all night.”

The younger man laughs, moving to stand at his Master’s side. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who’ll be pursued; your looks had their own share of praises sung back during the war.”

Ben groans. “Please don’t remind me.”

“So I’ve got the clothes now, but I’m still going to need a mask. Unless, of course, you intend us to go bare-faced and get arrested.”

“I have that covered, actually,” the Master confesses, opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out a box bearing the logo of the same leatherworking company responsible for the creation of Anakin’s glove. “When we decided we would be attending the gala, I had this made custom.”

“You didn’t have to do that…” Anakin murmurs, taking the box almost reverently. “We could have just gotten something off the shelf.”

“I assure you that I did, and I certainly don’t regret it now that we know Master Jinn will be in attendance.”

The Apprentice giggles as he draws the mask from the box, cradling it in his palm as though it were made of something far more fragile. The leather has been stained an onyx black and meticulously shaped to resemble the head of a Krayt Dragon, just like the one in their shared Force vison with Jinn. The muzzle of the mask falls down past the wearer’s nose, obscuring most of their face. At the top of the mask protrude long, silver horns, matching the trim of Anakin’s clothes and the clasp of his cape. The Apprentice holds it up to look through it, eyes shining behind the holes in the mask.

“Qui-Gon is going to have a fit,” he decides, and Ben cackles in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see Ben's gear next time.  
> Next chapter is the gala, which is one of the Big Scenes I've had planned since waaay early in this fic. Needless to say, I am thrilled to finally have gotten here. It's the reason I sat myself down and wrote this chapter today. Now that i'm done, I can start on the next one!
> 
> I almost forgot! I have some visuals for along the lines of [Anakin's](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/e8/44/82/e84482998790ef13e3575cad9bec3c86.jpg) [Mask](https://img0.etsystatic.com/005/0/5203101/il_fullxfull.364195416_7546.jpg)  
> and a new [ TUNE](https://youtu.be/8FE8vwh56e4) for the Skywalker playlist.


	21. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masquerade: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be kind of silly, but ended up serious instead. Thanks, boys.

Melody fills the cavernous Alderaan palace ballroom as a dozen musicians from across the galaxy pluck strings or blow horns or create the rumble of percussion. Men and women and those beyond mill about the edges of the hall, talking in low tones that grow into an ambient murmur. Those at their center spin slowly in pairs to the rhythm of the music, entwined in an intimate embrace. Servers carrying platters of finger-foods and champagne weave their way between their masked patrons, offering refreshments to the Queen's guests.

Above it all, on the balcony overlooking the hall, Qui-Gon Jinn stands watch over these careless creatures of the night. He wears no mask, cannot risk the obstruction to his vision, and instead hides himself in the shadows. While a naturally social being, Jinn has never held affinity for politicians, and his charges for the evening consist of nothing but. No, best to remain above it all and leave the mingling to the more tactful Master Koon.

Across the great hall, his padawan is perched upon a balcony very similar to Jinn's own, watching the scene below with sharp eyes. He, too, is bare-faced amongst the sea of masks; a man alone with nothing to hide. The bruises on his skin are muted with the aid of concealer, but the darker wounds still stand out against his pale complexion. Qui-Gon watches his pupil slowly pace the length of the balcony, scanning the crowd for signs of unease, only to miss the real danger that’s lurking behind.

The first thing Qui-Gon sees are the eyes, glowing gold in the shadows behind the pillars that line the hall. Next the snout and the horns, like the beast from his dream. A man slips from the shadows, prowling toward the padawan's turned back, and Jinn does not need to be told that this is Lord Vader. From across the hall he can feel the weight of the Sith's presence, unfurling like a cloak and smothering the light. He watches Obi-Wan's head snap around, watches the padawan stiffen with surprise, feels primal fear flood their Bond. Obi-Wan fumbles for his lightsaber, and Qui-Gon reaches for his own, preparing to run to his pupil's aid.

"There's no need for that," a smooth, Coruscanti accent drawls from behind him. "I can assure you that my Apprentice is quite unarmed."

Qui-Gon whirls in search of the voice. Standing just behind him is Lord Adelfos. The top half of the Sith’s face is covered in a mask, but Qui-Gon would know those golden eyes anywhere. Dressed in a crimson tunic, accented with gold, Adelfos stands vibrant against the shadows. His mask is simple by comparison to Vader’s—a simple band of red, like blood smeared across his face. The Sith Master offers the Jedi a lazy smirk, black-gloved hands raised to signify his intentions—or lack thereof.

"You know, I used to hate parties like this," Adelfos confesses, slinking over to the banister and leaning his elbows on it, gaze skipping over the partygoers below; nerfs ignorant to the akk wolf in their midst. "Attendance was always required, however. Such is life as the face of the Jedi Order. Lord Vader still hasn't quite gotten the hang of it, but I think I could grow to enjoy them. So many inflated egos, desperate to prove themselves to their peers... you could talk them into anything at an event like this, if only you spin it to the betterment of their position."

“It was arrogant of you to show yourself here,” Qui-Gon comments, striding back toward the balcony to lean against it beside Adelfos. “The Republic has a warrant out for your arrest.”

Adelfos snorts, one gloved hand curling into a fist in his agitation. “My Apprentice and I are not responsible for the bombings you and the public blame us for.”

“We have footage of you and your Skywalker fleeing the scene of the Geonosis factory bombing,” the Jedi counters.

“Well… yes, that one was us,” the Sith sighs. “Or Anakin, rather. He can be a bit overzealous with the escapes; I’m afraid he may have learned that from me. But the other three were… someone else.”

“You expect me to believe that someone is framing you for these bombings? Why would they do that?”

“To take advantage of an opportunity; to clear the field, as it were, of obstacles without arousing suspicion.”

“And just who would do that?”

“Even Sith have enemies, Master Jinn,” Adelfos replies, ominous.

Jinn tracks Plo Koon as he weaves his way through the crowds below. The other Jedi Master doesn’t seemed to have noticed the arrival of the two Sith, instead dogging at the heels of a young sever, attempting to catch her attention. She is obviously inexperienced, likely brought in from another position amongst the palace staff to assist with the chaos. Even so, the movement of the crowd keeps Plo from catching up to her. Qui-Gon makes a note to ask after his fixation on the girl after the party.

“You mean the other Master?” Qui-Gon questions, turning his attention back to Adelfos. “The one the Apprentice Maul served? You know him?”

“Of course I do! Or have you forgotten where I come from? And while I do not know the entirety of his plans, I have a grasp on the most pertinent details.”

“It that why you’ve come to the gala tonight, then? To ask for assistance?”

“Stars no!” Adelfos laughs. “Of course not. We’re here for the same reason you are—to make sure the representatives of the Trade Federation make it through this party in one piece.”

“And why would you do that? You seemed to have no qualms with destroying their factories on Geonosis.”

“Oh, make no mistake, the representatives of the Trade Federation are little more than worms,” the Sith scoffs. “However, they are worms that serve a purpose, at the moment. Their ineptitude is the perfect roadblock for Sidious’ plans; without them, it will be so easy for him to take control, and the entire galaxy will dance to his tune.”

“And you know this how, Lord Adelfos?”

“Because I’ve seen it, Master Jinn. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched the Republic as we know it fall at the feet of a monster, and watched an Empire rise up in its stead. I will not allow it to happen again.”

They are quiet following Adelfos’ declaration, watching their respective students talk on the opposing balcony as Qui-Gon attempts to work through what the Sith has told him. He’d known, of course, that there must have been a tragedy to prompt the Force to bend itself the way it has and return two of its children to a time long past, but the fall of the Republic? The rise of an Empire? It’s almost too much to comprehend.

“I should just arrest you,” the Jedi Master sighs, stroking at his beard with one hand as his thinks. “Why am I not just arresting you?”

“Because you’re curious about me,” Adelfos supplies. “You’ve always been too curious for your own damn good. It’ll be the death of you one day.”

Qui-Gon’s head whips around to stare, startled at the Sith’s comment. Adelfos doesn’t seem concerned about the sentiment, pushing away from the balcony and offering a Jinn his hand. The music is beginning to slow with the end of the current song, the crowds below them shuffling about as newcomers join the dance floor and those present find new partners.

“May I have this dance, Master Jinn?”

Qui-Gon knows that he should say no, but Adelfos had been right on his previous assumption: Jinn has always been too curious for his own good. He accepts the younger man’s offer and allows him to guide them down from the balcony and amongst the bodies on the dance floor.

He expects Adelfos to lead—it’s not like a Sith to surrender their power—and is surprised when the other Master falls into the position to follow. Qui-Gon isn’t going to argue with the turn of events, however, instead beginning to lead them through the first slow, rhythmic steps. Adelfos carries himself as gracefully on the dance floor as he does on the battlefield, according to what he’s been told. Unlike his Padawan and his former Master, he’d been unconscious the last time they’d been around the Sith in combat.

“If I may ask,” the Jedi teases, attempting to hide his unease with the fact that he’s less than a foot away from a Darksider, “who taught you to dance? You’re quite good.”

Adelfos gives him a wry grin. “I must confess, Qui-Gon, that you did.”

The evening is full of the unexpected, it seems.

“We were partners on a mission quite similar to this one in my youth. I couldn’t dance to save my life, but it was a required skill for the mission. You took it upon yourself to teach me, for which I am eternally grateful—and apologetic, as I lost track of the number of times I trod on your toes within the first hour alone.”

It’s Qui-Gon’s turn to laugh, then. “You sound like my Obi-Wan. It took days of work to get him anywhere close to acceptable. For all his skill in combat, he is hardly suited for the finer arts… Is that why you Bonded with me, then? I was a familiar face?”

“Something like that…” Adelfos murmurs, cryptic as ever. “If we are asking personal questions, Master Jinn, may I ask what happened to your Padawan?”

“How did you—?”

“I told you during our previous conversation that there is little Anakin and I can hide from each other, and at the moment he quite furious with the state of your student. So I repeat, what happened?”

Jinn grimaces. “Obi-Wan was attacked by several older padawan last week for his affiliation with you and yours. Even with the aid of bacta, they’re still in the healing process.”

“That would explain Anakin’s distress,” Adelfos sighs. “He is quite fond of your young Obi-Wan.”

“I’ve noticed that your Bond with your Apprentice is quite strong. Is it always that way between Sith?”

Adelfos scoffs at his question, and uses the brief moment of surprise it draws from Qui-Gon to switch their positions, leading now instead of following. “No, Sith Masters rarely Bond their Apprentices. There’s no sense in getting attached when your student will be the inevitable cause of your demise. No, Anakin and I are a… special case.”

“Because you were Master and Padawan in you previous life? Even for having shared a Bond in the boy’s youth, your connection is quite powerful. I would think it would’ve taken longer to reestablish it, after it was severed at his Knighting.”

“Anakin and I never had our Bond severed,” the Sith Master admits. “Our connection has always been strong, even during the early days. By the time he reached Knighthood, the galaxy was embroiled in civil war, and to sever our Bond would have been to put us on the bench for weeks or more while we recovered. The Council couldn’t afford that, and as we were often assigned pair work anyways, it was let slide.”

“You don’t worry your Apprentice will be your end? You did just say that it’s tradition for the Apprentice to kill the Master.”

“Maybe in the tradition of the Line of Bane. Lord Vader and I take our cues from an earlier incarnation of the Sith…”

Adelfos leads them from the dance floor after that, heading toward the edge of the room. The crowds are thinner there, and they can talk with less risk of being overhead. On the way he collects a flute of champagne from a server, and Qui-Gon turns down the one offered to him. He can’t drink on the job, no matter how watered down the champagne may be.

"Who are you?" Qui-Gon asks, watching the Sith Master sip slowly at his champagne, completely at ease. As though he is not a wanted man; as though he is not standing at the side of his peoples’ mortal enemy. He doesn’t really expect an answer, but there’s no harm in trying.

The question earns him one of those infuriating grins, and Adelfos reaches up to his face, slipping his mask free. He releases the flute of champagne, but it doesn’t fall as gravity demands. Instead, it hovers in the air as though it were being held by a third hand. Such flashy, superfluous use of the Force is exactly the kind of behavior one may expect from a Sith, and the obvious disregard for the Jedi Code doesn’t stop the amused chuckle that escapes the Jedi Master.

“I think you know exactly who I am,” the Sith says, drawing his free hand through his hair and ruffling it from its previously immaculate state. “You just won’t let yourself acknowledge it.”

Qui-Gon scowls at the accusation. “I have no idea who you are, Adelfos.”

His companion’s eyes narrow. “ _There is no ignorance, there is knowledge_ ,” Adelfos recites. “Be careful, Master Jinn, that your ignorance does not lead you astray.”

The Jedi Master opens his mouth to retort, only to be cut off when a harried-looking server rushes over, pressing what looks like a folded scrap of flimsi into Adelfos’ hands before running off again. The Sith Master looks at the note curiously, handling it as though it were a strange and foreign artifact. Qui-Gon cannot read what is written down, but its contents leave the Sith with an expression that is two parts surprise and one part pleasure.

Tucking the note inside his robes, Adelfos returns his attention to his Jedi companion. “If you would excuse me, Master Jinn, I’m afraid something has come up that requires my attention, and I’m sure your padawan would like to be free from my Apprentice for a while. Anakin can be quite a handful at events like these.”

Adelfos does not say anything, does not make any gestures, but only a moment passes before Vader is emerging from the crowd, a disgruntled Obi-Wan in tow. The Sith Master and Apprentice exchange a meaningful glance, and then they’re strolling off without another word. For some reason, Qui-Gon lets them go.

* * *

 

“What are you doing here?” Padawan Kenobi snarls, hand resting on the hilt of his lightsaber where it hangs on his hip.

He doesn’t dare light it unless Vader turns hostile, lest he cause a panic with the various diplomats below. Vader seems, for the most part, relaxed. Intimidating, yes, but there are few other words that can adequately describe a Sith Lord. He keeps a healthy space between himself and Obi-Wan, as though sensing the padawan’s unease, and speaks loudly enough for the Jedi to hear him through the natural muffling of his mask. The black leather has been meticulously shaped to resemble the shape of some fierce, reptilian creature. It fits a man, he thinks, with so much raw power at his disposal.

“Keeping you busy while my Master has words with yours,” Vader replies, gesturing across the hall to the opposing balcony.

Sure enough, Jinn and Adelfos are leaning against the banister on the other side of the hall, looking down on the party as they speak. Obi-Wan probes at the Bond in an attempt to ascertain his Master’s condition, and finds no sign of alarm in Qui-Gon’s mind. Instead, there’s the same quiet curiosity he’s long since come to associate with his Master’s mind at work. He’s _interested_ in the conversation he’s having with Adelfos, whatever it is they’re talking about.

Vader had gotten closer when Obi-Wan was watching their Masters, very suddenly in the padawan’s space when he turns back around. The Sith Apprentice’s eyes are narrowed behind his mask when he catches hold of the Jedi’s face, angling it toward the light to get a better look at the bruising that mars the padawan’s skin. Vader brushes a thumb over a bruise on Obi-Wan’s cheekbone, he murmurimg a soft apology when he presses too hard and causes the younger man to flinch away.

“What happened here?” Vader demands.

Obi-Wan knows better than to lie to a Darksider, especially after his encounter with Quin in the temple. The Dark Side seems to bring with it a sense of propriety, and do not take well to the damaging of something they consider _theirs_. As much as Obi-Wan wishes to deny it, he is—in the strangest sense—under the protection of this strange Sith duo.

“A couple other padawan attacked me last week,” he confesses.

“What?” Vader growls, the oppressiveness of his presence bearing down on the padawan as though trying to shield him from further harm.

“They’re frightened of my Master and I. They don’t like our connection to you and your Master.”

Vader sighs, and very suddenly Obi-Wan feels the darkness slink away, replaced with a light the likes of which he’s never experienced before. It rushes over him, through him, chasing the lingering ache of his injuries away as though they were never there. He knows this feeling: Jedi healing techniques. The Council had denied him this, claiming his injures negligent enough that use of the Force was unnecessary. Qui-Gon would have healed him, but the Master never learned how. Vader’s eyes, as he stares down at his handiwork, are a deep blue.

“How did you—?” the padawan chokes out.

“The Jedi have always feared what they do not understand,” the Sith declares, releasing Obi-Wan and turning toward the balcony as though that little episode hadn’t happened. With the relinquishing of his grip, the darkness rushes back in, turning his eyes a Sith yellow once more. “You are not to blame for the situation you’ve found yourself in.”

Obi-Wan follows Vader to the balcony, again turning his gaze to the party below. Their Masters have relocated to the dance floor, spinning in slow circles as they continue their conversation. The crimson and tan of their clothes are a striking contrast to the monochrome attire of the remainder of the partygoers.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience, Vader.”

The Sith Apprentice sighs. “It’s something Ben used to tell me in my early padawan days. I think it was as much a comfort to himself as it was to me.

“I didn’t come to the Order until I was nine standard,” Vader admits, ignoring Obi-Wans startled expression. “The Council didn’t want me trained, but my Master begged them to make an exception. It was his Master’s—my Grandmaster’s—dying wish that I study the ways of the Jedi. Temple life wasn’t easy for either of us back then. He was only twenty-five, taking a padawan straight out of his Knighting; I was an Outer Rim slave boys separated from my mother and my friends, granted a power I couldn’t hope to understand or control. We weren’t well liked amongst our peers. They feared us—the Sith Slayer and his padawan, the Chosen One.

“For all the Jedi preach peace, there were times when the temple halls felt more like a battlefield than the war ever did. I was on the receiving end of several… altercations like the one you had with your comrades. My Master would clean me up and he’d tell me that it wasn’t my fault. No matter what they said to me, no matter what they tried to make me think, he’d remind me that I wasn’t to blame for a situation beyond my control.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Obi-Wan asks, voice ragged.

Vader glances over at him. “This situation you’ve found yourself in, Padawan Kenobi? It’s not your fault, nor is it in your control. I’m sorry to have taken that power from you, but we must do as the Force commands. Everything that’s happened? You are beyond blame.”

“I thought the Sith were all about gaining power.”

“I’ve come to find that there is more than one path to power, and taking it from those too weak to defend themselves is the lowest form. I’ve had that kind of power before, and I have no desire for it again.”

Obi-Wan mulls that over for a while. “You’re quite strange for a Sith,” he decides.

Vader snorts. “As if you have such a wide frame of reference. Now come on, my Master is calling. We’re needed on the floor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyhoo, this masquerade sequence is going to be 2-3 chapters? Maybe? We'll see how the next scene plays out, and go from there I guess.


	22. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masquerade: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, kids. My partner and I were away for a few days.

“We have a location on the bomb?” Anakin asks, trailing just a step behind Ben as they weave their way through the halls.

There are few other souls this deep in the palace’s underbelly—only a few harried workers trying to keep things running smoothly for the party upstairs. They’re unimpeded as they make their way down into the basement levels even though Ben had left his mask in one of the floors above. With his hand entwined with Anakin’s and a smug smile on his face, they look like nothing more than a pair of lovers off to get into some mischief and no one looks twice. With the addition of a small but of Force-suggestion, the palace staff won’t even remember that they’ve passed.

“Indeed,” Ben says, reaching into his tunic with the hand not twined with Anakin’s, fishing the note given to him earlier from its folds.

Anakin leans across him to snatch the note from his fingers. He flicks it open, intelligent eyes scanning over its contents. “You realize this is Dooku’s handwriting, right?” he asks skeptically.

“Of course,” Ben replies. “We certainly spent more than enough time rustling around in his things during the war.”

“Then you know we’re more than likely walking into a trap?”

“I’m not an idiot, Anakin.”

The Apprentice sighs. “So nothing’s changed, then.”

“What can I say?” Ben drawls. “I like springing traps.”

“Well, if you’ll recall, I murdered Dooku the last time we sprung one of his traps.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then.”

Ben finds himself suddenly spun, his back making contact with the cool stone of the wall. Anakin’s hands lands on either side of his head, boxing Ben in as he presses himself against the Master’s front. Hot breath ghosts along the column of his throat, the younger man’s lips trailing up to catch Ben’s.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Ben returns the younger man’s lazy kisses and rests his hands on Anakin’s hips. His fingers slip up under the hem on his Apprentice’s tunic, and Ben doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of feeling Anakin under his palms—warm, like what lies beneath his skin is not flesh and bone, but the twin suns that bore witness to his miraculous birth. Anakin slips a knee between Ben’s thighs, rocking against him in hopes of coaxing the Master into further action.

Only then does Ben push him away, using his grip on Anakin’s hips to still the boy’s incessant movement and put a scarce few inches between their bodies. The pitiful whimper his Apprentice makes is almost enough to break his resolve—he’s really quite fond of the delicious noises Anakin makes—but Ben is the Master for a reason.

“Come now, Anakin,” he chides, teasing. “We have a mission to attend to.”

“But this is so much more enjoyable,” Anakin argues, attempting to catch his Master’s lips again. “Besides, it’s probably a trap anyways.”

Ben slips out from under Anakin’s arm, straightening his rumpled clothing once he’s put an additional few feet between them. “Even so, we can’t take that chance. We are talking about a bomb in the Alderaan palace, with delegates from countless worlds in attendance. If they were to be harmed here tonight, Sidious’ rise would be made substantially easier.”

“Fine,” Anakin huffs, darting in to peck Ben’s lips one last time before taking off down the hallway. “We’ll spring your stupid trap. But I expect us to pick this back up afterward.”

“Of course, dearest one.”

It’s not that Ben doesn’t understand Anakin’s anxiety. In fact, he finds it quite understandable that Anakin is uneasy about facing Dooku again. In their past life, things with the Sith Master had always been a battle—quite literally. And though they’d done their best to prevent his fall this time around, he’d succumbed to the call of the Dark Side anyways. Again they stand on opposite sides of a war Ben isn’t even sure Dooku knows he’s fighting, with their encounters ending just as violently as those they’d had in their strange future past.

Of their encounters in the present, Anakin has come out worse for wear. On Dathomir, he’d fallen victim to the man’s power and nearly been captured by the Jedi, with only Ben’s timely interference sparing them the pain of separation. On Geonosis, Ben had sent him away before he could do any real fighting. This is the first time they will have met face to face since Anakin’s defeat, and Ben can feel the man’s lingering worry that he won’t be strong enough drifting through the Bond. He sends gentle reassurance and watches Anakin’s shoulders straighten as the Apprentice receives his comfort. Yan Dooku may have been the stronger Jedi, but Lord Tyrannous is the weaker Sith.

There is more to the story, though, than that. In their past life, Dooku’s death had been one of the pivotal steps in Anakin’s fall to the Dark Side and into Sidious’ control. Much in the same way he worries over his ability to control himself around the Jedi after twenty years of ingrained hatred for their breed, he frets over his ability to hold himself back in combat with Dooku. Ben has come to suspect that this is what caused his loss on Dathomir; he fears that killing Dooku, however accidentally, will make him more susceptible to Sidious’ machinations.

It’ll never happen, of course, and a small part of Ben is frustrated that Anakin is holding himself back over this. Anakin will never fall back under Sidious’ control; if the other Sith Master wants him, he’ll have to pry the boy out of Ben’s cold, dead hands. And considering Ben’s death hadn’t done much to keep them separated the first time around, who’s to say Sidious would even manage it the second. The fact of the matter is, Anakin is tied to Ben—explicitly, unequivocally, eternally. Their Bond has been sanctioned by the Force itself; the death of one Fallen Jedi isn’t going to change that.

As they near the room indicated by Dooku’s note, Anakin’s strides shorten until the Master catches up with him, falling into step for the last few yards of their journey. They are both unarmed, though Anakin has the tools he needs to disable any bomb stashed in a hidden pocket. If Dooku is hostile, they’ll have to stick close in order to get out of this unscathed. Even though Dooku had been barely more than a fledgling Sith the last time they’d encountered him, he’s had a month to improve himself. Ben and Anakin are gifted, but they’ve had to leave their lightsabers back on the ship in order to avoid drawing Jedi ire. The vibroblades tucked into their boots aren’t going to do much in a real fight against a lightsaber, and they’re unwilling to take any additional chances with so much on the line.

They enter the hall—a storage space for palace supplies—and find themselves face to face with Sidious’ Apprentice. Dooku stands at the center of the room, hands raised in a gesture of peace. He’s wearing the same black and red shades he’d been fond of in their past lives, and there is no lightsaber hanging at his belt. At his feet is, almost unbelievably, an actual bomb. There is also a Trandoshan in mercenary’s garb on the floor just behind Dooku, but as he’s tied up and gagged with what appears to be shredded curtains—likely liberated from one of the storage crates—he won’t be posing any particular threat.

“Lord Adelfos, Lord Vader,” Dooku greets, offering the younger Sith a polite bow as they approach. “I must confess that I’m surprised you came.”

“Lord Tyrannous,” Ben acknowledges, nodding in return. “We were convinced this was a trap, so consider us both surprised. Who’s your friend?”

Dooku glances over his shoulder at the Trandoshan. “One of my Master’s hired hands, and your serial bomber, as it were. I had hoped to reach him before he was able to plant the device, but I’m afraid I was held up at the gathering upstairs. I assumed you may be able to drag some information out of him, if you came. You are far more proficient in the Sith arts than I.”

Ben hums, considering, and strolls over to where the Trandoshan lays, Dooku joining him. Anakin’s thoughts are a buzz in the back of his mind, the Apprentice stopping to inspect the bomb instead of joining the others in front of their captive. “May I ask the reason for this betrayal of your Master, Lord Tyrannous?”

“I have meditated on your words quite often since our last encounter,” Dooku confesses. “The Dark Side has repeatedly warned me against repeating the mistakes of my past. I do not know what mistakes it speaks of, but I am not so foolish as to ignore it.”

“A wise choice,” the Master murmurs, crouching before their captive and untying the gag. “Now then, do you have anything to tell us about the device Sidious hired you to plant?”

“Go to hell,” the mercenary snarls, and promptly spits in Ben’s face.

Dooku tenses at Ben’s side, and he can feel Anakin’s fury at the blatant disrespect from where the man had been monitoring the situation with half an ear while he worked open the bomb’s casing. In the Force the Dark Side hisses its own rage, whispering cruel things in his ear as it demands vengeance for the slight. Who does this lizard think he is to disrespect Ben?

The Sith Master sighs, wiping his face with the sleeve of his tunic. “I figured as much.”

His vibroblade sinks between the Trandoshan’s ribs with satisfying ease. The reptilian creature chokes, wide eyes glancing between Ben and the gaping hole in his chest created when the Sith rips the blade free, as though he can’t quite believe what is happening. It doesn’t matter whether he believes it or not—he’s still dying, choking on his own blood while the rest spills out from the hole in his hide. Ben calmly wipes the blade against his trousers, cleaning the blood from its surface as though this is just another day and he hasn’t just murdered a man in cold blood.

He hears Dooku’s breath hitch at the action, still unaccustomed to the violence of the Dark Side, which coils contentedly around them with the Trandoshan’s demise. “Why did you do that? He could have information we need!”

“He wouldn’t have told us anything; your Master paid him too well,” Ben snaps, rising to his feet. “Besides, his actions were quite uncivilized, and I have a reputation to uphold.”

“You could have gathered the information from his mind!” Dooku challenges as he follows Ben back to where Anakin is crouched by the bomb, buried up to his elbows in wires.

“We don’t have time,” Ben replies. “And I didn’t have the patience. Anakin, how are we looking?”

“I haven’t worked with this particular model before,” the Apprentice confesses, worrying his lower lip with his teeth, “but I should be able to deactivate it. Just give me a few minutes.”

The Master nods, stepping back to give the boy his space and gesturing for Dooku to follow. They settle on crates nearby, close enough to monitor Anakin’s work but far enough to converse without distracting him. Mostly, they speak of the party upstairs and various delegates in attendance. Dooku is delighted for the update about his lineage, having missed the opportunity to approach them himself before chasing the Trandoshan into the basement. It’s easy to talk to the elder Sith when they aren’t fighting, which is not altogether surprising. For all the lingering mistrust of the Clone Wars, Ben can still remember his early Padawan days, when the man had been an active part of his life. Asking after Dooku’s training reveals that Sidious’ treatment of Anakin hadn’t been unique, and that the man’s current Apprentice has learned very little in the last month. He can use Sith Lightning now, though, as Dooku proudly informs.

“If I may ask,” the elder Sith begins, taking advantage of a brief lull in the conversation, “what did I do in my past life? If I’m not to repeat the same mistakes, I would very much like to know what to avoid.”

It’s a moment before Ben responds, turning the potential consequences over in his mind. While telling the man of his not-quite future poses some risk, it seems as though the rewards may outweigh them. Dooku obviously hasn’t shared much information about them with his Master, or Sidious would be more aggressive with attacking them directly. It seems, for the most part, that he isn’t yet as unquestioningly loyal to Sidious that he’d been in their past. If they share his mistakes, if they can convince him to avoid making them again, it could go a long way in stopping the Clone Wars before they can even start.

“Qui-Gon was killed shortly before I was knighted,” Ben admits, continuing on before Dooku can say anything. “You didn’t take it well. You lost faith in the Council and the Senate for their inaction on the matter, and you fell. At Sidous’ command, believing yourself to be changing the galaxy for the better, you encouraged planets to break away from the Senate. Together you formed the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and you led them in war against the Republic.”

Dooku’s breath hitches, expression mortified. “I—I what?”

“Your Master had been elected to Supreme Chancellor a few years prior. With his position as head of both the Republic and the Separatists, the entire folded to his whim. The Jedi were enlisted in the war efforts, corrupting their values until they were almost unrecognizable. Thousands died—Masters, Knights, Padawan. They were nothing more than cannon fodder for your droid army.

“But you were never meant to lead. Your position was temporary—a holdover until Sidious could take the Apprentice he actually wanted. Over the course of the war he used his position to groom a young Knight for the position of Apprentice, manipulating him into questioning the Republic, the Jedi, and even his own Master. In the end, he killed you, and claimed his rightful place as Apprentice.”

“Who—?” Dooku chokes.

“Me.” The proclamation comes from the other side of the room, where Anakin has paused in his work to meet the eyes of the other Sith Apprentice. “I killed you, then I destroyed the Jedi Order and killed my wife and my Master. I cleared the path for Sidious’ Empire in a fit of rage and naivety.”

Ben doesn’t bother correct Anakin’s statement about killing him. He knows Anakin is speaking of the events on Mustafar, and while Ben had technically lived through the encounter, his spirit had not. Their fight had broken him in a way the deaths of thousands of Jedi hadn’t, in a way the loss of his Master hadn’t, in a way being cast away to Bandomeer hadn’t. Obi-Wan Kenobi had died beside his padawan on the banks of Mustafar, the shell of a man left behind only kept alive and breathing by the primal desire to protect the offspring of a man he had loved with every fiber of his being.

Neither Anakin nor Dooku say anything further, staring each other down in a strange, silent communication. It is Anakin that turns away first, returning his attention to the bomb, cheeks flushed. There is an understanding in Dooku’s eyes that gives Ben hope for this new future.

“I think I just about have it,” Anakin says, and the other Sith approach to watch the final steps of the process.

Anakin fiddles with wires within the device, deliberating between a green and a red before finally reaching for his vibroknife and cutting the red wire. For one perfect second, the chrono on the device freezes. Ben is just about to heave a sigh of relief, except that he isn’t given the chance. Their mission, as is their norm, goes from manageable to disastrous.

“Kriff,” Anakin yelps when the chrono resumes its countdown, this time even faster than before.

“What happened?” Dooku snarls. “What did you do?”

“There must be a secondary detonation mechanism,” The youngest Sith says, plunging his hands back into the bomb’s innards. “I triggered it by disabling the first one.”

“Can you disable it?” Ben asks, already running through possible strategies dependent on Anakin’s answer.

Anakin whines. “I… I don’t know.”

The Master nods sharply in understanding, turning to Dooku. “You need to go evacuate the palace,” he commands.

“No! I can stay and help—”

“Anakin was the best mechanic in the Order. If he isn’t sure he can disable the bomb, we can’t take any chances. I’m wanted by the Republic—I can’t be seen at the party unmasked. You are the only one who can do this, Tyrannous.”

Dooku is clearly unhappy, but relents, taking off at a run for the hallway. In the meantime, Ben sinks into the Force, reaching for the Bond with Qui-Gon. It only takes a few sharp raps to the man’s shielding to draw his attention, and he pushes what he can of the situation into the Master’s mind. Images of the Trandoshan, of the room they’re in, of the bomb. A sense of urgency and an accompanying picture of Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan and Plo Koon directing faceless partygoers toward the exits. Receiving a soft wave of understanding, Ben returns to the present.

“You should go, too,” Anakin urges, glancing up briefly from his work.

“I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“There’s no sense in the both of us dying if I can’t stop this bomb.”

“You’ve seen inside my mind, Anakin. You know that I’ll have drunk myself to death within a week if I ever lose you again, unless the side effects of severing our Bond kill me first. No, if I’m to die, I’d rather do it at your side than alone in some alley on the lower levels.”

Anakin lets out a bitter, panicked laugh, but doesn’t argue further. Ben settles down at the boy’s side, watching him work. The clock continues to tick down, and Qui-Gon sends him a confirmation when the palace has been successfully evacuated. Anakin visibly relaxes with the news, but there isn’t enough time for them to get out of the blast’s radius even if they were to make a run for it.

Something travels over the Bond, a sense of resolve, and Ben barely has time to acknowledge it before Anakin is choking out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

Between one heartbeat and the next, Anakin’s presence in Force takes hold, flinging him away with a wave of the Apprentice’s hand. The unexpected action leaves Ben flailing, unable to correct himself, and he crashes to the floor behind a stack of crates on the far side of the room.

By the time he regains some measure of control over his limbs, by the time he pushes himself to his feet, it’s too late to do anything. He briefly sees Anakin scrambling away from the device before he’s thrown backwards by the bomb’s concussive force. His head hits the floor with a sharp _crack_ , and then he sees no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry  
>  ~~no I'm not~~


	23. Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Identity: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on updates kids. It's been a shit few weeks for me. This chapter is equally terrible, but i'm an American and consequently stressed as hell, so forgive me the subpar quality.

Wakefulness does not come slowly for the Sith Master. It’s abrupt, sudden, all at once. A sharp sting drags him from blissful unconsciousness, sending him flailing against physical and mental restraints. Wrists and ankles are held fast by soft but strong restraints, preventing him from throwing off the source of unexpected pain. Somewhere, a heart monitor shrieks at his distress, the noise like nails digging into delicate senses. His breath comes quick and gasping as he tries to ground himself in the Dark, but the Force is nowhere to be found. He is alone—terribly, horribly, helplessly alone.

Fingers curl into Ben’s hair, brush down his arm. A woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, is telling him that everything is alright, that he’s perfectly safe, but he begs to differ. He may be suffering from a few loosened screws since his return to the past an consequential fall to the Dark Side, but Ben is positive that he is in the right in deciding that there is nothing _ok_ about this situation. He is restrained, he cannot touch the Force, and (perhaps most importantly) he cannot feel _Anakin_. If this is alright, then that woman is out of her Force-damned mind.

Prying open his eyes, Ben is greeted with the sight of Vokara Che hovering over him, eyes narrowed in concentration as she fiddles with an IV port stuck into the crook of his elbow. “Hello, Lord Adelfos,” she greets, sharp gaze briefly flickering up to meet his before returning to her work. “Do you know where you are right now?”

A stupid question. White walls, heavy antiseptic smell, Che herself. “The Halls of Healing in the Jedi Temple.”

“And do you know who I am?”

“Vokara Che, Master Healer of both mind and body.”

She nods, smoothing down a strip of tape to keep the IV’s needle in place and under Ben’s skin, then turns to fiddle with the heart monitor, which has quieted slightly now that the Sith Master isn’t in a blind panic. “It seems Master Jinn was correct in his claims of your extensive knowledge of the Jedi Temple.”

Ben isn’t particularly interested in engaging in pleasant conversation with Master Che. He hadn’t much liked the woman when he was a Jedi. Now that he is a Sith, he is in no way, shape, or form required to even tolerate her. “Where is my Apprentice?”

Anakin’s absence is a black hole inside Ben’s mind—an ugly, gaping thing that swallows up everything but the singular desire to locate the boy and assure himself of his condition. The last thing he remembers is the bomb going off, and seeing Anakin diving desperately for any kind of cover. Had he found shelter? Is he injured? Have the Jedi even located him?

Che ignores the question, rambling on instead about Ben’s condition. “You’ve been restrained and been given a Force-suppressant for the safety of the healing staff until you are well enough to be transferred to a secure cell on the detention level. As for your injuries, you’ve suffered from some minor burns, as well as the expected abrasions and contusions that come with being in the blast radius of an incendiary device. There were also several large pieces of shrapnel lodged in your abdomen, which have since been—”

“That is not what I asked,” Ben snarls, straining uselessly at the bindings around his wrist. If he could touch the Force, he would be out of the simple straps already. Without it, things get a bit more complicated. While he can get out of them anyways, it requires dislocating a finger or two, which he needs privacy to accomplish.

“I don’t know anything about your Apprentice, Lord Adelfos,” she snaps in response. “I’m only here to oversee to your treatment. Now stop squirming before you dislodge your IV. I will sedate you again if I have to.”

Ben isn’t particularly interested in cooperating, but knows better than to call Che on her bluff; the Healer is unlikely to tolerate further resistance now that she’s given him verbal warning. Over the course of the Clone Wars, Ben and his lineage had often fallen victim to a holospray or three whenever a stay in the Halls was required. Vokara had come to realize that keeping them out cold was the only way to keep them still, and he would rather this incarnation of the occasionally cantankerous Twi’Lek never come to the same conclusion.

When the IV and accompanying equipment finally passes her standards, Che wanders to the foot of the cot and collects a datapad, presumably with what medical information they’d managed to gather during his stint of unconsciousness. “Lord Adelfos,” she reads aloud, scrolling through the file. “Human male, middle aged, Force-Sensitive. I don’t suppose you want to tell me your legal name and make this process easier for the both of us?”

The Sith Master snorts, wiggling in his restraints. “You may run my bioprint if you are so invested in knowing my identity, Master Che.”

“Figured as much,” Che sighs, typing a few things into the datapad. “You have a lightsaber burn scar around the circumference of your neck. How did you get it?”

“I died.”

She doesn’t look surprised. As a mind healer on the side, she’s likely heard a dozen stranger tales than Ben’s. The only difference is that Ben’s actually happened. She’s unlikely to believe it to be more than the delusions of an unstable Darksider without considerable evidence, however. “You were beheaded?”

The tone of voice she takes, like she’s just playing along to keep him compliant, grates at his nerves. What’s the point of this? Qui-Gon can tell them most of the story, anyways. Ben should be out tracking down his wayward Apprentice, if the Jedi haven’t already located him. “Indeed.”

“That must have been quite traumatizing, Lord Adelfos.” At least she uses his Sith title with a bit more respect than the others.

“Not nearly as much as waking again afterwards, I assure you.” He pauses, taking stock of himself before announcing, “My head hurts.”

“You’re a powerful Force-wielder; I would imagine being cut off from it for as long as you have been must be quite uncomfortable. If you didn’t have a history of violence against Jedi, I would suggest you be moved to an unshielded room. However…”

“Technically,” Ben drawls, “my Apprentice killed Knight Krell.”

“Did your Apprentice also break Padawan Kenobi’s nose? Electrocute Master Dooku? Cause whatever harm through your Force Bond that left Master Jinn in a comatose state for nearly a week?”

Well, that’s hardly fair. “Instances of self-defense. Padawan Kenobi attacked me and Dooku attempted to abduct my Apprentice. As for Master Jinn’s coma, he very likely would have been killed if he hadn’t fallen unconscious when he did. Really, I should be receiving _thanks_ for saving his life.”

Master Che does not look at all impressed. Ben is unsurprised. He could rescue a ship full of defenseless orphans and the only thing she’d be impressed by would be how much he’d managed to injure himself in the process. Honestly, some people.

“I can give you a painkiller, if you would like.”

“No thank you, Master Che. I think it for the best I keep my wits about me.”

The healer sets the datapad down and wanders away to rustle through some drawers as a rap sounds on the door. A padawan, whom Ben recognizes as his childhood friend Bant, pokes her head into the room. “Master Windu is here, if it’s ok for him to come in and talk to…” her sentence trails off as her gaze flickers to Ben, her large, round eyes watching him with a combination of curiosity and suspicion. She is obviously unsure how to refer to him. Ideally she would use his title, but realistically, he is a prisoner. Ben hadn’t realized how much he missed her until she stood before him.

“Let him in please, padawan,” Che instructs, collecting what she’ll need to draw blood and run it through the Temple’s systems.

Mace Windu steps through the door, glowering at the Sith Master with blatant hostility. Unlike most of the people he’s encountered so far, Windu has changed very little from the man in Ben’s memories. There are a few less lines on his face from the stresses of war, no bags under his eyes from countless sleepless nights, but otherwise he is the same. Mace Windu is the foundation of the Jedi Order, strong and sure. It’s no surprise that, when he had fallen, the Order had swiftly followed.

“Lord Adelfos,” he growls. “You’re finally awake.”

“So it would seem,” Ben replies. “Perhaps you could help me: is there news on my Apprentice’s condition? I’m afraid Master Che hasn’t been particularly forthcoming on the—ouch!” The healer in question has just stabbed him with a syringe without warning or preamble, likely in retaliation for his commentary. She just raises a brow at him as she draws his blood. Stars, he hates this woman. “You couldn’t just run my prints?”

“Fingerprints are easily manipulated with modern technology,” Windu explains, “and as Masters Jinn and Koon suspect you’re a former Jedi, we would rather get straight to the point and know which one of our members has a potential future as a Sith Lord. As for your Darth Vader, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you anything.”

Ben scowls. “He is _my_ Apprentice. If anyone has a right to know his condition, it’s me.”

“The Council disagrees,” Windu huffs.

Gritting his teeth, Ben has to choke down the urge to hurl insults at the Jedi Master. Who do the Council think they are? After everything that Ben’s done for them over his lifetime? Sure he hasn’t done it in _this_ timeline, but Ben served as their loyal puppet for nearly forty years. Is it too much to ask for a return of favor? Honestly. All he wants to know is how Anakin is doing; it’s hardly an extravagant request. He’d be a model prisoner if they would just keep him updated. Instead, they’re going to do this?

He wonders if this is how Anakin felt every time the younger Knight butted heads with the Council in their past lives.

Once Healer Che has collected a large enough sample for testing, she passes the vial of Ben’s blood delicately to Windu, as though the Dark side that once flowed through it might be contagious. A completely foolish notion, but one that amuses him nonetheless.

“Master Windu,” He calls after the Jedi when he pockets the vial and makes to take his leave.

Mace turns to look at him, but his patience is evidently wearing thin now that the mystery of Ben’s identity is so close to being put to rest. “What, Adelfos?”

“The Jedi Order isn’t particularly well known for its tact, but when you run your tests… do be careful with the information you discover.”

“Worried what your younger self might do when he find out he grows up to be a Sith Lord?”

“Stars no,” Ben replies. “He’s a smart boy. He can make his own decisions, live his own life, independent of the choices I’ve made in mine. He’ll be shaken, but he will move forward. I am concerned, however, with what our Master might do…”

“Is he known for reckless behavior, Lord Adelfos?”

“And little else, I’m afraid.”

Windu, apparently seeing the genuineness of his statement, nods sharply. “I will see to it that this matter is handled with care.”

“Thank you.”

With that, the Jedi Master slips out the door, and Vokara returns to his side, changing out the bacta patches that cover him. Ben huffs unhappily at his situation. He needs to get out of here, he needs to find Anakin, and he needs to do it before Qui-Gon uncovers his identity. The Jedi Master is brash, and reckless, and has an unparalleled hatred for the Dark Side. There is no way to predict what he’ll do when he finds out Ben’s identity; it’s the reason he’s been so hesitant to reveal the truth of himself. The blood test will by him some time, but only so much. He can’t dally.

“My deepest apologies for this, Master Che.”

__

As it turns out, escaping and incapacitating a Jedi Healer is quite a bit more time consuming when you’re injured and cut off from the Force. By the time Vokara Che lays unconscious at his feet, by the time Ben has popped his dislocated thumb into place, he can feel the clock weighing heavily on him. He needs to get out of here, and he needs to do it fast. Stumbling across the room, clutching at the aching wound in his side, he searches for a tunic or cloak to cover his bare chest. Each step aggravates his wound. Vokara had said something about shrapnel lodged in his side, hadn’t she? Force, it _hurts_. Maybe he should have taken her up on that offer of painkillers.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

Ben whirls, forcing himself to move through the agony still radiating from his side and his hand, to face the source of the voice. His blood runs cold when he does, facing down the one man in this whole damned temple he needed to avoid. He was too slow.

Qui-Gon Jinn stands just inside the room, taking up most of the space in the doorway. The man is not red-faced, nor huffing, nor anything of the sort. He is almost supernaturally still. Calm and cold and rigid, and every instinct in Ben’s body is telling him to _get away_. This recognition in Jinn’s eyes and cool disdain in the slight curl of his lip. The veil of anonymity Ben has been relying on in their past interactions has fallen, and for the first time Qui-Gon is seeing the truth of him: his former padawan from a future past.

With his injuries and the Force-suppressants coursing through his blood, Ben is at a distinct disadvantage against the larger, stronger, uninhibited Jedi. While the midichlorians in his veins are working away to clear his body of the Force-suppressing compound and will probably be done with that process long before the Jedi suspect thanks to the tolerance he’d built up over the course of the clone wars, he’s still all but defenseless until enough time has passed.

“I’m going to find my Apprentice,” Ben says in response to Jinn’s question. “Since the Council has been less than forthcoming on the details of his current state.”

“You are not going anywhere, Obi-Wan,” Jinn prowls further into the room as he speaks, spitting Ben’s name like an insult. Just over Qui-Gon’s shoulder, he can see Mace entering, likely having followed the other Master here after he received the news of Ben’s identity. He bends to check on Che, monitoring the situation with half an eye. The Sith Master just hopes the Jedi Councilor will step in when this inevitably gets violent. He can’t see this confrontation ending any other way.

“Then somebody had better tell me where my Apprentice is, because I will not let you hold me here any longer without—”

“Your Apprentice is dead!” Jinn hisses, and Ben’s world feels like it’s falling out from under him.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, he can’t be. I would _know_.”

“Would you? You’re cut off from the Force and from your Bonds. You haven’t had access to any kind of news outlet. Meanwhile, rescue teams and Jedi alike have been combing the ruins of the Alderaan palace and have found no trace of Lord Vader.”

Ben stumbles away from the advancing Jedi, every fiber of his being vehemently denying what Jinn has to say. “He could have gotten out. He could have gotten away and—”

“When he was closer to the blast than you? No. Face it, Kenobi, your arrogance got your Apprentice killed!” Qui-Gon is in his space, too close for Ben’s comfort, but he can’t get around the man in his current state. Not when his mind is in a haze of pain and denial. Jinn has to be wrong. Anakin can’t be dead. That’s not how things are supposed to happen. “You’ve been bound to him for how many years? Ten? Twenty? More? I know you took him on right after my death—just days after our own Bond was severed. How long has it been since you’ve been alone inside that head of yours? How long will it take for your mind to tear itself apart now that he’s gone?”

In the end, Ben strikes first. It’s clumsy and inelegant, but Qui-Gon is too close and his words make the Sith Master see red. Jinn must not have expected him to actually lash out, however, because he manages to take the Jedi Master off his feet and they tumble together into a heap on the floor. Ben feels his stitches tear as he and Jinn wrestle for control of the situation, but the sharp pain only serves to fuel his rage.

He did this to protect them. He took Anakin down into that basement and told him to stop the bomb. He put Anakin’s life at risk for the sake of the Jedi, for the sake of the galaxy. The Jedi could never understand the decisions Ben’s had to make, nor the things he’s lost. He sacrificed _everything_ to protect them, and Qui-Gon still has the audacity to see him as a monster. Qui-Gon still has the audacity to treat the threat of Anakin’s death as inconsequential.

The outburst is short-lived, Mace is there in a matter of moments to pry Ben’s grip from Qui-Gon’s throat, but the Sith still gets a vague sense of satisfaction in knowing that he’s managed to cause his former Master at least this small hurt. It is nothing compared to what Ben feels, to the gut-wrenching agony is Anakin’s absence in his mind, but it is something. “You _asked me_ to train Anakin!” Ben snarls, writhing in attempt to get free of Mace’s grip as Qui-Gon gets to his feet. “It was your dying wish! I had to prostrate myself before the Council, beg like a _dog_ at their feet for that boy, and now you have the _audacity_ to act as though he were nothing more than a pawn? A piece to use to secure my compliance? Anakin Skywalker is not dead, and stars help me when I get out of here, you will regret this farce!”

“Your attachment is blinding you, Sith!” Qui-Gon argues. “Why are you so afraid to face the truth?”

“Because it isn’t _truth_! If Anakin were dead, I would know it. I would feel it; you would feel it. There would be an unbalance impossible to correct!”

“And how would you know? Have you lost him before? Is that why you’re so desperate to have not lost him again?”

Ben opens his mouth to respond, but Mace cuts in on their argument. “That’s enough! Both of you!” The Sith Master ceases his struggling, and Qui-Gon glares at the Jedi Councilor over Ben’s shoulder. “Now, I think we all need to cool down and continue this conversation when we aren’t quite so emotional. Jinn, get out.”

Qui-Gon looks like he’s about to protest, but finally sends Ben one last disgusted sneer before storming from the room. The small part of him that was happy at harming his former Master is quick to shrivel up into disappointment. The Jedi Master hadn’t even asked after Ben. He hadn’t asked why he’d fallen. He’d treated it like it was always meant to be, like it was inevitable. That stings more than he’d care to admit.

He doesn’t turn on Mace when the man releases him. He’s bleeding from his torn stitches and not nearly strong enough to fight someone as powerful as the Councilor. Windu will put him on his ass faster than he could blink, in his current state. Instead he limps across the room and falls heavily into a guest chair, watching as Windu collects the unconscious Healer Che and deposits her carefully onto Ben’s bed. His head pounds, like it had in those days after Qui-Gon’s death and before he’d fully Bonded to Anakin.

“Is she going to need medical attention?”

“I’m not an animal, Mace, despite what Master Jinn may believe,” Ben scoffs. “Is Anakin really dead?”

Windu sighs. “We’re not sure,” he confesses. “Qui-Gon was correct when he said we hadn’t found a trace of him yet, but there’s no way of knowing for certain without granting you access to the Force, which we aren’t prepared to do. Are you really Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“You ran my bio signature; that should have been all the confirmation you need. But yes, I was once Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“You’re not anymore?” Windu asks with a quirked brow.

“No,” Ben says with a bitter chuckle. “Obi-Wan Kenobi died with his padawan twenty years ago. I’m… what remained, I suppose.”

When Che is comfortably settled, Windu collects a first aid kit and kneels at Ben’s feet, wiping away the blood slowly oozing from his torn stitches with surprisingly gentle hands. “Sounds like one hell of a story.”

“It’s quite long.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing we have time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this fic has a happy ending please hang with me.


	24. Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I had originally plotted out as one slightly larger chapter has now become at least two, potentially three depending on how the next one comes out, slightly smaller chapters. I decided the content we're getting into here was way too heavy to run through all at once.

Qui-Gon storms through the temple halls, the Force in upheaval around him. He is a thundercloud of rage and agony and those attuned the flow of the Living Force scramble to get out of his way. Padawan duck into classrooms or behind pillars, Knights and Masters step to the side of the hall. All of them wear concerned looks, but nobody tries to stop him. For this Jinn is almost grateful; he isn’t sure he could avoid an altercation at this moment in time. Right now, he needs to get away from the Jedi and the Sith alike. He needs to go back to his quarters and think. He needs to have a long, hard talk with his padawan about their future as a pair.

 _Not that we have much of a future, anyways_ , a bitter part of him mumbles. If what he’s seen in Adelfos’ dreams are correct, he may very well die before his padawan is knighted. In another life, he’d been felled in combat and left his student alone to raise a child when he was barely more than a child himself. In another life he left Obi-Wan to be ostracized by his brothers and sisters, even more so than he was in his youth. In another life, the Council cared so little for the health and safety of its members that they allowed those wounds to fester and rot until they turned a promising young Jedi into the man Qui-Gon just left locked up in the Hall of Healing.

The very thought of his bright young padawan’s Light corrupted by the Dark Side makes him nauseous, but whether this is from sorrow or rage even he isn’t sure.

Keying in the access code to the Tholme-Vos apartment, where he’d left his padawan before being summoned to the Council Chamber, Qui-Gon struggles to calm some of his tumultuous emotions. They cling stubbornly, however, refusing to be released into the Force without a better examination of them.

He steps into the apartment, gaze skipping across the small living area in search of Obi-Wan. The boy is not on the couch where Qui-Gon had left him, nor can he hear the incessant chatter than always accompanies placing Vos and Kenobi in the same room. Instead the apartment is almost ominously quiet, save for the clattering of kitchen utensils that alerts him to the fact there is at least one person here.

“Tholme?” Jinn calls, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

The other Master is there, leaning over the stove and cooking something in a large pot. While the Jedi Order has a functioning refractory available, it is not uncommon for Knights and Masters to spend their meager stipends on ingredients to cook themselves. Refractory food is hardly the most flavorful, having to be inexpensive and quick to make, and many Jedi come from cultures where the ability to cook is valued highly. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan are among an unfortunate minority: those who never quite mastered the culinary arts, despite their best efforts.

“Tholme, where is my padawan?” Qui-Gon asks when the other Master has turned away from his cooking.

Tholme’s brow furrows. “You don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you, now would I?”

“The Council commed him shortly after you left for your session. I’d assumed you knew, considering you were supposed to be in a meeting with them.”

“Where did they send him?” Qui-Gon growls.

“There was supposed to be a senior padawan escorting a few initiates to collect their first saber crystals, but he apparently came down with the Corellian Flu. The Council sent Obi-Wan instead of waiting for the other padawan to get out of the isolation ward.”

Qui-Gon can feel his teeth grinding together in is frustration. The Council has sent his student off-planet without his permission—without even _informing_ him. They’ve even gone so far as to craft this perfectly elaborate lie to keep suspicions from getting too high. A sick padawan? Qui-Gon would be more inclined to believe the story if he hadn’t just been down in the isolation ward himself. The only person down there is a certain Sith Master. More likely they pulled some grateful senior padawan off assignment and sent Obi-Wan along in his stead.

“Stars- _dammit_!” He lashes out indiscriminately with the Force, sending a mug flying across the room and shattering against the wall on the far side of the room.

“Master Jinn!” Tholme chides at the same time a startled yelp sounds in the living space.

Quinlan Vos peeks his head warily around the corner, golden eyes glowing beneath his dark hair. “Masters? What’s going on?”

“Nothing that concerns you, padawan.” Jinn snaps, earning himself another stern glare from Tholme. Vos’ eyes dart back to his Master, seeking reassurance.

“It’s alright, Quin,” Tholme soothes, stepping past the enraged other Master and placing a reassuring hand on his padawan’s shoulder. In the Force, Quinlan’s dark presence swirls with his agitation. It, combined with those yellow eyes, reminds Qui-Gon far too much of Adelfos for him to calm at all. Catching on, Tholme asks, “Have you had your session with the mind healers today, padawan?”

Quinlan looks visibly put-out about the blatant change of subject, but dutifully replies, “Not yet, Master.” “Why don’t we all go sit down, then, and I’ll com a Councilor to come collect you and take you down to the Halls, alright? That way Master Jinn and I can talk in private.”

“Alright…” Vos mumbles and wanders back into the living space, the Master just behind.

Qui-Gon watches Vos settle on a cushion with a scowl. Tholme looks about ready to punch him in the face for his behavior, but he can’t make himself feel guilty about it. An awkward silence descends upon the room, all parties tense and uncomfortable. Quinlan obviously has no idea what he’s done to set the usually friendly Master off, and while Tholme has his suspicions, he can’t be certain without Jinn’s confirmation. A sharp rap at the door announces the arrival of a Councilor, and Vos is quick to flee the strained atmosphere.

Just as soon as the door slides shut, Tholme rounds on Jinn. “What in the blazes was that, Jinn?” the other Master snarls. “What were you thinking, upsetting my padawan? Things are difficult enough as it is without you giving a hard time as well!”

Any defense Qui-Gon had before Tholme began speaking dies in his throat. The anger he’s been clinging to slips through his fingers like sand, and he sags down into the seat he’d taken when they moved into the living space. “The Council session… It was… it was a disaster, Tholme.”

“What do you mean?”

Qui-Gon pushes himself out of his seat, wandering over to the table, where he’d seen the other Master’s datapad during his earlier scan of the apartment. It only takes a few taps of the screen to bring up the file on Adelfos, and a few taps more to input his access code to the file’s more sensitive information. He shoves it into Tholme’s hands and sweeps back to the couch before the other Master can say anything. He doesn’t want to see the man’s response to the information.

 “How—how is this possible?”

“Apparently the Force has no qualms about the ethics of time travel. The Sith Order predicted that two Force-users would return from the future, presumably to change the timeline. It seems that Vader and Adelfos were the selected visitors.”

“Oh,” Tholme says, and the room plunges into silence.

“I failed again,” Qui-Gon chokes out when the ominous quiet lingers too long for his already frayed nerves.

The other Master sighs, finally making his way over to the couch and settling beside Jinn. The datapad is left at the table. “Qui-Gon...”

“I’ve _seen_ his memories, Tholme.” Jinn snaps, the words spilling through his unwilling lips and he’s unable to stop them. The whole story falls out of him and all he can do is watch himself speak. “I know what I—or the other me—did to him. Asked of him. I cast him aside for a stronger student and then, when I couldn’t train the boy, I asked him to do it. It was my _dying wish_ that he, not even a Knight, wage war with the Council for the sake of the boy who replaced him. Stars, he HATES me. I didn’t even have to be connected to the Bond to know it; I could see it in his eyes… The Council should have never allowed me to take another student after Xanatos. I don’t deserve my title of Mas—”

“Stars above, would you quite your moping!?” The other Master has leapt to his feet, his outburst startling Qui-Gon into nearly joining him. “Of course he hates you! If I were that man, I would hate you, too!”

The words drive air from Jinn’s lungs as effectively as any physical blow, but Tholme doesn’t stop there.

“All of his life, Obi-Wan Kenobi has been everybody’s second choice. He’s been forced to beg and barter his way through every relationship—every interaction. He traded his life for your pledge on Bandomeer, and your trust for his unquestioning obedience. You have never respected him for what he is, but instead for what he’s done for you. And then this future you cast him aside for what, a better student? Another boy you could use to bolster your reputation? Of course he’s furious with you!

“You threw him away without a second thought and then, when you fell short, you foisted that very child upon him because you knew he wouldn’t say ‘no’. Obi-Wan Kenobi has never wanted anything more than to have your approval. He has bent himself over backwards, driven himself mad, trying to earn it. Of course he took the boy, because it was what _you_ wanted him to do. Even after you died, he just wanted to live up to your ridiculous expectations!

“But that doesn’t make his fall your fault. You haven’t made those choices yet; you are not responsible for his decisions. What is your fault is if you allow him to fall again because you do _nothing_. I have spent weeks locked in this damned apartment, trying desperately to help Quinlan back into the Light. It’s exhausting, and painful, and so far completely and utterly useless, but I don’t intend to stop trying. But you? You storm in here ready to cast your padawan aside on the off chance that he might, maybe, one day become like this version of himself from a markedly more traumatic future! You let your fear rule you, and that is _pathetic_ , Qui-Gon.

“I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. I will go down with Quinlan Vos because that is the promise I made to him when he was thirteen years old and I gave him my pledge. But you still have a chance to make things right. You still have a chance to change—to prove to that Sith son of a bitch that you are _not_ the same man who took away his future before he even had a chance to live it. You can be the teacher that boy deserves, so that he can grow into the Jedi that everyone knows he can be. You cannot let your failures blind you, Qui-Gon. The future is always in motion, but nothing will ever change if you don’t give it the chance.”

Tholme’s rant tapers off, the man standing above Jinn with his chest heaving and an intense gleam in his eyes and Qui-Gon has never felt more helpless in his life. He doesn’t want to think about half of what Tholme said—about how he hasn’t been a good Master to Obi-Wan in the past. They’ve had their differences, especially over the Sith in recent weeks, but he thought they were a fairly decent team before Adelfos and Vader came along. Of all the things Tholme could have accused him of, mistreating his student would have been the last he would suspect.

Still, it must be true. The irrefutable proof is sitting in the isolation ward of the Hall of Healing. Somewhere along the way things had gone terribly wrong between them, and its name is, in part, Anakin Skywalker. Young Padawan Kenobi had shared the story Skywalker told him at the gala about their lives as Jedi. What had he been thinking, taking a nine year-old boy to the Temple and demand he be trained? At nine standard, most Initiates were well on their way to becoming padawan, or aging out and joining the corps. To think such a slave child’s transition to such a foreign world would be smooth is sheer lunacy. Had he really been so arrogant that he thought he could bring such a troubled child into the fold without facing consequences? Had he taken Obi-Wan’s growth into a strong senior padawan as a sign of his own prowess, rather than the boy’s dedication to his cause? Had he really thought himself strong enough to raise the Chosen One?

Obi-Wan was. Broken and bruised and beaten down by the world, the young Knight had taken the boy under his wing and raised him to be the powerful Jedi that Qui-Gon has seen in his dreams. Now, he is the loyal Apprentice that tags at Adelfos’ heels. What had been the final trigger, Qui-Gon wonders. What had pushed the mild-mannered Councilor over the edge? Had Vader already fallen, or did he drag the boy down with him when he plunged into Darkness?

Having disappeared sometime during Qui-Gon’s introspection, Tholme returns with two mugs of tea. Qui-Gon is thankful that it’s not Sencha Green—that might have made him nauseous. “I am sorry for yelling, Qui-Gon,” Tholme sighs, sitting back down beside him, “but I think you needed to hear what I had to say. You’ve reached a point in your life where you have to make a decision, and that choice you make is going to affect us in ways we cannot even begin to predict. If you aren’t seeing things clearly, if you are blinded by your fear or your arrogance, the decision you make could send us right back down that path that the Force returned the Sith to prevent. You’ve seen just a small glimmer of that future through Adelfos’ eyes; is that a future you want your student to have to live through again?”

“He was a Councilor,” Qui-Gon whispers, throat tight. “He went through all of that and they still put him on the Council.”

“And imagine how much more he could do if you give him the chance. That boy of yours could be the grandmaster one day. We all know it. You have to let him try—you can’t run from him.”

Qui-Gon nods shakily and sets his mug down on the coffee table before rising to his feet. “Thank you, Master Tholme, for your hospitality, but it’s time I retire to my quarters. You’ve given me quite a bit to think about.”

“Any time, Master Jinn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Tholme. D R A G H I M.  
> If you haven't already figured it out, I am ready to fight the Jedi Order any day anytime. Qui-Gon Jinn in particular, right after Yoda. I am a platinum member of the "punt the troll into the sun" club tbh.
> 
> Also, sorry I didn't answer very many of your comments last time? I love every single one. Thank you for our continued support of this fic. It honestly means the world to me.
> 
> Aaaand finally, our friend Ev drew some cute [ ART ](http://the-obi-wan-for-you.tumblr.com/post/153215138042/a-bit-late-to-the-party-but-have-some-of-glares) of our beloved boys ft. Anakin's furniture-eating sith magic. Go give them attention. They deserve it.  
> (I apologize I don't know your a03 un just lemme know and i'll link you.)


	25. Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mace pokes his nose into things he oughtn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've taken a look inside Ben's mind, so we're going to poke around Ani's this time. He's unconscious at the moment, just letting everybody run around, and we'll check back in with him more next chapter. He is, in fact, alive and well. Ish.

Mace finds himself standing in a field of wildflowers, looking out over the surface of a crystalline lake. Just a moment ago he’d been kneeling on the cold, tiled floor of Adelfos’ room in the Halls of Healing, trying to have a discussion with him, only to have the Sith retreat to the vastness of the Force with surprising ease for a man doped up on surpressants. Following had landed him here, in what he suspects to be Lord Vader’s mind. It is certainly not Adelfos’, as he’d had to fight his way through some impressive shielding to get here. A gentle breeze takes the edge off the planet’s summer heat, cooling the air just enough to be pleasant and sending the lush grass rippling like waves on the water. The endless, cloudless sky stretches above him, and Windu can’t help but think that this place is beautiful—and entirely unexpected, for the mental construct of a Sith.

Children’s excited shrieks draw his attention from the lake and up the gently sloping hill behind him. A large house, more a small manor really, stands at its crest. There are three children tumbling through the lush grasses between the house and the shore, their hair bedecked with wildflowers and cheeks flushed with exertion. The youngest are human, one boy and one girl. The boy is fair, with blonde hair and thin, light clothes; the girl is darker than her counterpart, her hair a contrasting brown and her colorful garb better suited to a colder climate. They are different, yet the same—in the tanned shade of their skin and the wide curl of their smiles. Mace has no doubts that these children, despite their differences, are related.

The third child is hardly much of one anymore: a teenaged Torgruta, still growing into the strength and prowess of her race. Her skin is a soft orange, her montrals white and striped with a bold blue. She wears nontraditional garb, but the twin lightsabers at her hip and the silka bead braid hanging alongside her lekku designate her as a Jedi padawan. The girl’s laughter rings out clear and strong as she chases the younger children across the lawn, catching them and tickling them, making them squeal in delight, before she sets them loose once again.

Further up the hill sits Lord Vader. Windu has only seen the man once in person, when he’d been held unconscious in the Halls, but he’s studied the Sith’s file often enough to recognize him. Darth Vader, Anakin Skywalker, Sith Apprentice. He is as much a mystery as his Master—a Knight, the Chosen One, fallen from the path of the Light. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, bracing his weight on his arms, he watches the children play with a melancholy expression. In this place, both of his arms are flesh and bone and his eyes are a clear blue. “It’s rude to enter another’s mind uninvited, you know,” the Apprentice comments when Mace approaches.

“It was rude of your Master to flee from our conversation,” Windu counters. “Where is he?”

Skywalker doesn’t take his eyes off the children for long, just enough to jerk his chin toward the house that stands behind them. The front door stands open, the strings of fate spilling out into the yard like a spider’s web. A thousand paths untraveled, a thousand more that could be, all tied to the golden thread that binds this boy to the man he calls _Master_. “In there, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Mace says, makes to go. He doesn’t move far, though, his own curiosity getting the better of him when Skywalker makes no move to stop him. He’s invading on the most private space of this Sith, uninvited, but the young man seems content to simply watch the children play and leave Windu to his whims. “Who are they?”

“Lost opportunities,” is Skywalker’s reply, forlorn in a way that seems to age the man thirty years. For a heartbeat the image flickers, and the world around them has changed.

The lush greenery is gone, replaced by black stone and glowing rivers of molten lava. The heat is oppressive, the sulfurous air difficult to breath, the skies black with ash. The boy is dressed in black robes reminiscent to the Jedi’s style, battered and bruised, his right hand gleaming with the silver of a prosthetic; the girl wears all white, her hair up in buns, standing as though she bears the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders; the torgruta wears grey, her montrals grown in her age, a hole singed through her chest where her heart should have been. Where Skywalker once sat is a monstrous black beast, more machine than man, its breath rasping with every artificial inhale. By the time Mace blinks, the scene has returned to how it was, and he is unsure whether a slip in Skywalker’s control or his own power of sight brought this vision to life.

He is not entirely sure it matters.

Retreating to the house then, he finds the long, winding halls all but empty. Their eerie silence contrasts painfully with the bright atmosphere outside. Somewhere in this maze is Adelfos, if only Windu can find him. While tracking the Master’s Bond to Vader has gotten him this far, it is useless now that the man’s presence is already fused with that of his Apprentice. There is nothing to be done but to look the hard way.

Each hall he wanders through is lined with doors, far more than even a house of this size could realistically hold. Mace has wandered through enough minds to know that memories lay behind them, but is hesitant to open them with no idea what may lie within. Each door is identical—neat rows of solid faces with mysteries within. All he can do is wander and hope for a sign of where the Sith Master might have gone to.

It comes in the form of a door cracked open, sand spilling out into the hallway from within. There are tracks in the grains leading further down the hall, and though they fade before they get very far, at least Windu has a place to start. This, it seems, is where Adelfos had entered, the source of their Bond cleverly hidden from the prying eye. If not for the suppressants lacing Adelfos’ system, making him clumsy, there likely would have been no sign at all. Mace himself had been forced to go the long way, fighting his way through Skywalker’s shields. He follows the tracks until they fade, then keeps walking. While he has no idea where he’s going, there’s a whisper of something that tells him he’s headed the right way.

The door he stops before is no different than the others. It is no different and yet it is not quite the same. Windu can’t tell what sets this door apart, but the air of the hall is filled with the scent of sulfur and smoke. Curiosity is both boon and bane to a Jedi, no different here than in any other instance. The door gives only the slightest resistance, and Mace steps through to the fiery planes beyond.

__

_“Ani, you are breaking my heart!” A woman yells, standing before Skywalker’s towering form. She is small, so small, the little girl from the lawn practically her spitting image. Her stomach is visibly round with child even through the loose fabric of her dress, and she shakes with the effort it takes just to stand in a world so unsuitable for life. Still she does not falter, staring down the man’s wild eyes as though she can tame the beast within._

_It is in vain, of course. The Sith know only madness. They exchange heated words, desperate pleas, and Windu is forced to watch as Vader—he has no doubt that this is Vader—holds the petite woman aloft, the Force wrapped like a vice around her throat. Her toes barely scrape the durasteel, and though she struggles for every breath, she still begs for this man to turn from the path he’s chosen._

_“Put her down, Anakin!”_

_Mace’s eyes are drawn away from the pair, to the ship the woman presumably came in. Striding down its cargo ramp is Lord Adelfos—no, not quite. There is something different about this man, something essential. This is not the Sith Master, not yet. This is Jedi Councilor Obi-Wan Kenobi._

_Vader drops the girl, who crumples to the ground, unconscious. Sith and Jedi exchange heated words while Kenobi checks her pulse, and Mace can read in the man’s face that he doesn’t like what he finds. The smoke stings at Windu’s lungs as the men scream at one another, seemingly picking up the argument where the woman left off. Accusations of treachery and disloyalty, and Vader cannot see the way his words are tearing Kenobi apart. Mace can, though. Mace knows he’s watching a man’s heart breaking, and begins to regret ever letting the Force guide him into this room. ‘I’m… what’s left,’ Adelfos had said, broken in a way that very few men are, and Mace knows that this is what broke him._

_‘Sabers are drawn, their blue standing out against the planet’s fiery red, and Windu startles when a hand settles on his shoulder._

_“You shouldn’t be in here,” Adelfos warns, keeping his eyes fixed on Mace instead of the scene playing out before them. He seems desperate to look anywhere other than the two men, their past and future selves, locked in combat against the very lives they’ve sworn oaths to protect. They dance through the compound, their lightsabers flashing, matched in a way only those who’ve done battle together a thousand times before can be._

_“What is this?” The Jedi Master croaks, stepping forward when the pair disappear down into a dip in the landscape. Adelfos’ footsteps are hesitant, as though he does not want to follow._

_They stop at the top of the hill, staring down. Kenobi stands on the shore near the crest, Vader on a floating piece of debris in the molten river below. “The place where Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker died,” Adelfos answers, barely more than a whisper._

_“You underestimate my power!” Vader snarls._

_Kenobi pleads, “Don’t try it,” but his words go unheeded._

_Mace knows what will happen before it does. He can see it in the way Vader leaps, leaving himself completely defenseless. It is arrogant and foolish and it doesn’t make it any easier to watch when Kenobi’s ‘saber slices through the Sith’s limbs. It doesn’t stop the churn of his stomach when Vader screams in agony, tumbling back down the hill until he stops only feet from the molten river._

_Kenobi snaps then, screaming down at the Sith as he tries to drag himself through the gravel with naught but his mechanical hand. The gravel slips through his durasteel fingers, and any progress he makes is lost almost as soon as it is gained. “You were my brother, Anakin!” the Jedi shouts. “I LOVED you!”_

_Vader shrieks, “I hate you!” and if Windu had to choose the moment that sealed the fate of Obi-Wan Kenobi, it would be that one. Devistation mars Kenobi’s face, and when Mace risks a glance at Adelfos, the man is not watching the scene. His eyes are screwed closed, his face turned away, an intense look of shame on his face. Mace doesn’t understand until Vader begins to scream again._

_The magma kicks up sparks, one of them having caught the Sith’s clothes and set them alight. Horror wipes the Jedi Master’s mind of any thought when Kenobi makes no move to help the burning man. His student, his brother, his love. He stares down at Vader’s prostrate form, the smell of burnt flesh in his nose and the sound of Vader’s screams in his ear, and then he turns away. Strides up the hill, and is gone. Obi-Wan Kenobi leaves Darth Vader to burn, and there is no one to hear the Sith Apprentice beg for him to help._

____

Nausea churns in Windu’s stomach, potent, and he tastes bile on his tongue. He stumbles from the memory, dragging Adelfos with him as he falls free from Vader’s mind. Thrown violently back into his own body, he barely makes it to the ‘fresher before he loses the contents of his stomach. The stench of smoke and burnt flesh lingers in his nostrils, and he draws deep, ragged breaths of sharp, clean air in attempt to clear it. His mind is spinning, thoughts whirling like a cyclone. It is impossible to track any one, beyond the knowledge that he should have let Adelfos be. He should have let the man retreat and speak again when the Sith Master was ready. Instead he’d poked around into something he should have left well enough alone.

Adelfos is still sitting in his chair when Mace returns to the main room, having rinsed the bile from his mouth in the sink and taken a moment to collect himself. He is still shaken, still physically shaking, but knows he has to face this. He marched into Vader’s mind uninvited; he must face the consequences of those actions.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Adelfos asks, tone cold as the planet from the memory was not.

“I just wanted to understand,” Mace answers. “I just wanted to know why, how, padawan Kenobi could become…”

“Me,” the Sith Master supplies, and Winu cringes. “Are you satisfied with your answer?”

He doesn’t want to ask, not really, but he needs to. He slumps down onto the vacated cot, Vokara having woken and left sometime during their meditation, and asks the question he doesn’t want to. “What happened?”

“The Republic was lost,” Adelfos supplies, tone flat, like he’s reciting facts from a book instead of a horrifying reality he had once lived through. “We had been at war for years with a faction of planets who called themselves the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and we lost. The Jedi are not built for war, and it broke even the strongest of us. We all lost. The whole thing was puppeteered by a Sith with the title of Darth Sidious. The Republic fell, the Confederacy fell, and his Galactic Empire rose up in their place.

“Anakin, unbeknownst to the Order, had fallen in love and sired children with a Senator from Naboo. He suffered from prophetic dreams of her death, and when he sought aid from the Council, was ignored.  Sidious took advantage of his alienation, and promised the safety of her and their children if only Anakin would swear his fealty. And of course he did—he had nowhere else to turn, myself having been sent away on a solo assignment.

“He led an attack on the Temple and the very soldiers we trusted to guard our backs stabbed us in them at Sidous’ command. Yoda and I were, as far as I ever knew, the only two who survived. He sent me after Anakin and I begged, I _begged_ , to fight Sidious instead, but Yoda did not think me strong enough. So I snuck onto Padme’s ship when she went to try and talk Anakin down herself. You saw what came of that.”

Mace’s voice is hoarse when he says, “You just left him there. You left him there to burn. You didn’t even know if he’d die and you just _left_ him.”

“A Jedi doesn’t kill an unarmed man,” Adelfos murmurs.

“Don’t hide behind dogma,” Windu hisses. “It doesn’t justify your actions.”

“Oh, the _irony_ of that statement,” the Sith Master snarls, pushing himself to his feet, clutching his injured side. “You and the Council spent _years_ hiding behind your kriffing _Code_ , throwing it in my face—in _Anakin_ ’s face—whenever we came to you for aid. We were struggling! I was twenty-five when I took that boy on! My Master was dead and I was training the Chosen One and it was always, always my fault when I fell short. I shouldn’t have taken him on, I shouldn’t have been so lenient, I shouldn’t have gotten attached. So many excuses except that you didn’t want to help! You didn’t want to bear the responsibility should we have failed!

“What do you want to hear, Mace? That I felt guilt for my actions? Because I did! I failed Anakin, and I spent the next twenty years safeguarding his children. I gave my life to protect them! This new life that I’ve been bestowed? It’s not a _gift_. Anakin may see it as one, but Anakin has always been foolish. This is punishment—a brutal denial of the peace that was _all I ever wanted_!

“So please, Mace, go on. Tell me how terrible my actions were. Tell me how I should have reacted when everything I ever cared for was ripped out from under me. Tell me what you, esteemed Councilor, would have done with the nine year-old slave boy that’d just been ripped away from his mother for ‘sake of the galaxy’! Go on, Mace, tell me!”

Adelfos’ eyes blaze with his rage and blood oozes between his fingers where he’s ripped the rest of his stitches open in his rant. The Sith Master stares him down, and Windu has no idea what to say. His thoughts have gone back to the fog from earlier, and he can’t straighten them out under Adelfos' accusing gaze.

“Excuse me,” Mace mutters, and promptly flees the room.

He does not remember to give the man another dose of suppressants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben is going to fight the entire Jedi Order. It's on his to-do list.  
> Anakin's mental scape is supposed to be Varykino, Padme's retreat on Naboo, if it wasn't clear.  
> I know Ahsoka isn't "officially" dead in Rebels canon, and I would love to see her come back, but she is dead in SPK canon. Sorry, Snips. You died in Malachor every single time I replotted out these chapters.
> 
> Also, [ Drive by Oh Wonder ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LFGqokvOwI) is possibly the most canon Obikin song I've ever heard.


	26. Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddup it's ya bird, Glare.  
> I'm sorry for the delay on my updates, Real Life was being particularly demanding. On the upside, I now have an arts degree and will be free of the education system until the fall, when I return to Continue My Education, as one does or whatever.
> 
> Whilst I was away, this story passed 15k hits and 200 bookmarks. I can honestly say that I am astounded, and it has been such a joy taking this ride with you. I'm honored you've all stuck around. It means the world to me.
> 
> Finally, it is 3am and I have not beta'd this chapter at all so feel free to yell at me about any glaring grammatical/spelling errors. I almost titled this chapter "Twenty-Sicc" in my exhaustion, so I know there are bound to be some.
> 
> Without further ado, Twenty-Six.

Anakin tumbles from the fires of Mustafar to a red haze of pain. It sears up his spine and down the backs of his arms, wiping away everything but the sensation of _burning_. The smell of charred skin and the sharp bite of antiseptic assault his nose, and his disoriented mind finds itself caught in a nightmare lived and relived and believed left long behind. He thrashes against the hands that hold him to the bed, snarls at the voice that begs him to _be still_. He will not allow himself to be made into that monster again; he will not accept the past weeks as a figment of his tormented imagination.

The Dark Side rears up, an old, familiar friend, when he reaches out for its aid. Fueled by his pain and the wild, primal fear that pulses under his skin, it turns on whoever is foolish enough to try and restrain him with vicious glee. Anakin Skywalker will not be caged—not now, nor ever again. The hands release him, and he hears their owner stumble away, choking and gasping and likely clawing uselessly at their throat, as countless victims of this particular Force trick had before them. As much as Anakin would like to watch, to see the light fade from their eyes and relish in his victory, his mind is still screaming for him to _run_.

He’s lying on some sort of cot, the fabric scratching at the bare skin of his chest in a way that is registering in the last rational corner of his brain as strangely familiar. That little voice is quickly pushed aside when Anakin attempts to get himself upright, however, agony blooming across his back. He chokes down the scream that’s perched in his throat, waiting for a moment of weakness to break free. He’s felt worse pain than this— _lived_ for twenty years in worse pain than this. He must be going soft.

With great difficulty, Anakin manages to get himself into a kneeling position on the cot, prying his eyes open to get a look at his surroundings. They are, like the cot itself had been, vaguely familiar. He’s definitely been here before, but the specifics of just where _here_ is are consumed by the flames of Mustafar every time he reaches for them. Some kind of ship, if he had to guess, as he can feel the thrum of an old hyperdrive. The room, which appears to be a crew’s quarters instead of his previously suspected medbay, is decorated with a neatness and sensibility that would make his teeth grind if he wasn’t in so much pain. Clearly his captor hadn’t seen fit to give him anything for that.

“P-please,” a voice, presumably that of his captor, chokes from somewhere in the room. It takes Anakin a long moment to shuffle about and locate them. “L-lord Vader, please stop.”

Anakin’s sluggish brain is startled to recognize the figure writhing on the floor, especially considering Anakin's decapitated him before. The additional reference to himself as ‘Lord Vader’ further confuses him, as Dooku had never known him by that name. This, it seems, is enough to shock him out of his fearful haze and back into rational thought.

Alderaan. The bomb. Dooku. _Ben_.

Dooku sucks in a deep gasp when Anakin releases him, chest heaving when he drags in air, as though to make up for what he’d missed under the effects of Anakin’s attacks. Interspersed with harsh, barking coughs, the older Sith rubs at his sore throat and Anakin feels a brief flash of guilt for injuring Dooku, especially as he seems to have saved Anakin’s life. They are, he now realizes, in the _Negotiator_ ’s small crew quarters.

“What happened?” Anakin asks, watching Dooku push himself into a seated position. He would offer to help the man up, but his back is still screaming with pain and the idea of moving at the moment is a highly unpleasant one.

“I feel like I’m the one who should be asking that,” Dooku croaks in response, and Anakin feels himself flush. He mumbles a soft apology, but Dooku continues on as though he hadn’t even heard it. “In answer to your question, the bomb exploded. I dragged you from the rubble. You were conscious for long enough to guide me to your ship, as my own was destroyed in the blast.”

“What about Ben?” Anakin can feel their Bond, had felt the man poking around in his mind earlier along with a Light Sider’s presence, but the man’s mind is currently shielded from him. It’s throwing him off balance again, and he needs the confirmation of what he suspects.

Dooku gives him an apologetic look. “I was unable to locate your Master before the Jedi arrived.”

Anakin hisses unhappily. “I thought so,” he says, and the confirmation of his suspicions fills him with a new drive to continue trying to get out of the bed despite the way it pulls at his skin. “We have to go get him.”

“Lord Vader, you can’t—!” Dooku jumps to his feet, taking Anakin delicately by the shoulders and attempting to press him back down onto the cot.

“Anakin,” he corrects through gritted teeth, feeling his knees wobbling with the pain of standing. Dooku’s efforts are not helping. “Just call me Anakin, and I’ll call you Dooku. It’s a title, not my name.”

“ _Anakin,_ ” the other Apprentice drawls, making it clear what he thinks about Anakin taking the time to correct him, “my stance remains the same. You suffered severe burns along your back and arms due to the explosion. You should not be up and moving so soon!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Anakin snarks. “We can’t leave him there. They’ll run his prints. They’ll find out who he is, and then stars only knows what they’ll do.”

Dooku shoves him a bit roughly, and Anakin’s knees finally give out. He slumps down onto the mattress and glowers up at the man. “We won’t leave him there,” he assures, “but you are in no state to be rushing into the Jedi temple blind.”

A particularly sharp twinge from his back seems to support that claim, and Anakin must cede defeat. “Fine. Could you get me my holopad, then? We have a bug in the system to track certain Jedi’s movements. I’d like to know what’s going on.”

The requested pad is dropped into his lap, and Anakin flicks through its contents while Dooku busies himself with rustling through the nearly excessively large medkit Ben had taking to carrying lately. While not completely unwarranted and actually quite useful in this case, Anakin loved to harass his Master about it. He’s a little surprised to see that the Council apparently booked Padawan Kenobi on the first ship off world. He’d honestly expected them to have the kid on lockdown once they figured out Ben’s identity. Still, Anakin’s Master had told him a few stories about his own padawanhood under Qui-Gon Jinn. Perhaps the Council was trying to avoid the Master making a scene.

Something pricks at Anakin’s neck, and he glowers as Dooku retreats with a hypo of what Anakin quickly recognizes as pain medication. He can still feel his injuries, but it’s quickly fading to a dull throb instead of the relentless, pulsing ache it had been only a moment ago. “It looks like the Jedi have a ship out,” he says, offering the pad to Dooku when the man’s hands are free. “Do you think you could chart us a route to intercept?”

The man stares down at the coordinates Anakin has brought up before nodding in affirmation. “I’ll go input it into the nav.”

When Dooku slips from the room, Anakin allows himself to drift into the Force. His Bond with Ben is still firmly blocked, and Anakin’s continued prodding earns him nothing more than a pointed pulse of the man’s energy through the shields—the mental equivalent of a swift kick in the rear. Clearly whatever Ben is up to, he doesn’t want Anakin to find out. Which means it’s certainly either unbelievably dangerous, unbelievably stupid, or a delicate combination thereof. For all his complaints about Anakin’s poor planning, Anakin had at least never faked his death and made all his friends grieve his loss for the sake of some thrice-damned mission.

A cool glass is pressed into his hands, and Anakin drags himself back to the present. Dooku has since returned, carrying a cup of water that he is trying to offer to the younger Apprentice. The pain medication is making him clumsy however, and it takes him a moment to get a grip on the glass that Dooku trusts enough to let go. When he’s finished, he passes it back with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

Afterward, Dooku aids him in situating himself on the cot on his stomach before collecting Anakin’s holopad and, somewhat hesitantly, settling down on the mattress near Anakin’s head. The boundaries between them are strangely blurred, the knowledge of their antagonistic past intermingled with the circumstance of their present. Anakin can’t quite believe this is happening. If anyone told his past self he’d one day share space with Yan Dooku without trying to kill him, he would have had them locked up for sheer insanity. Yet here he is, not even six inches of space between them, and he can’t make himself drudge up that old desire to cleave the man’s head from his neck. He is, currently, too exhausted.

It only gets more surreal when Dooku takes it a step further, gently combing his fingers through Anakin’s hair, now sweaty from the exertion of trying to move around. The lingering tension in his muscles drains away with that one single gesture, years of conditioning kicking in. Ben had always done this for him after nightmares or after injuries or just sitting in their apartment enjoying a rare day to themselves. He’d often questioned where Ben picked the habit up, as he wasn’t fond of many other forms of demonstrating affection. Anakin supposes he now has his answer, though he can’t help but wonder whether Ben picked it up from Dooku directly, or if Qui-Gon had done the same for him during his years as a padawan.

The combination of pain medication and Dooku’s petting proves itself potent in loosening his tongue. “I never had this, you know,” he sighs.

“This?” Dooku questions, flicking through the pad with his free hand.

“Lineage. It was just me and Ben. Always just us, until Snips came along,” before Dooku has a chance to ask, Anakin quickly adds, “my padawan. Ahsoka.”

The hand in Anakin’s hair draws away, and he makes an unhappy noise. “You really had no lineage? No grandmaster? Great grand-master?”

“Nope,” he huffs. “Yoda never really trusted me, Qui-Gon died before Ben was knighted, and you… well… we’ve already discussed that.”

Dooku does not resume petting Anakin when he answers the man’s questions, which is leaving him quite disgruntled. “I— You—” Dooku sputters, “Adelfos is—”

Only then does it really occur to Anakin what he’s just said, and he freezes up, awaiting the older Sith’s reaction. “Yeah,” he confirms, and hopes he doesn’t sound as anxious as he is.

There is silence between them for a long moment, and Anakin risks a glance up to see Dooku staring at him, wide-eyed. The older Sith reaches back down toward him, and Anakin flinches away on instinct. A hurt look flashes across Dooku’s face, and Anakin buries his face back into the mattress to hide his burning cheeks.

“I can’t imagine a time when I would willfully abandon my lineage. When I would willfully abandon—” He can’t say Obi-Wan’s name. Anakin can’t blame him. It’s a lot to take in. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Wasn’t really you,” Anakin mumbles into the sheets. “Not _this_ you.”

The hand settles back into his hair, and he glances up to see Dooku’s earnest expression. “Nonetheless, Anakin, I am sorry. For everything that this other me did to you and your Master.”

“Ok,” Anakin squeaks. He can’t quite make himself accept the apology. He knows that when he comes down from the drugs, he’ll remember the feeling of hating Dooku. This isn’t the same man that took his arm, though. So while he can’t accept the apology just yet, maybe this is a good place to start.

__

There is a tense silence in the lift that is only to be expected, given its occupants. Padawan Quinlan Vos stands toward the rear of the car, unbound but unmoving. Jedi Master Ki-Adi-Mundi lies on the floor just behind him, unconscious and looking more like a wrangled bantha than a Jedi Master with the way the cart’s third occupant has trussed him up with scraps torn from his own cloak.

Ben Kenobi leans with his back against the door, guarding the buttons to the lift and observing his Jedi prisoners with interest. Mundi’s lightsaber hangs on his belt in lieu of his own, which is undoubtedly locked away somewhere Ben won’t be able to get to it even with his extensive knowledge of the Temple’s nooks and crannies. He’s had to steal another uniform, his own robes having fallen victim to the blast that landed him in Jedi custody. Vos glowers at Ben with the yellowed eyes of a fallen Jedi.

After Windu fled from him and the harsh reality of his past, it hadn’t been hard to escape from his room and out into the rest of the Halls. For all the supposedly heightened security since his previous visit and reclamation of his wayward Apprentice, they haven’t done much beyond change the general Masters’ override code. Ben, who had come to know his fellow Councilor’s quite well once upon a time, needed only input one of their personal codes to get through the locked doors meant to be keeping him in the isolation ward. Mundi and Vos had been boarding the lift when Ben reached it, Quinlan being escorted back to his room after a session with the mind healers. They had fallen to Ben’s attack easily, too startled by his unexpected appearance to adequately defend themselves. He’d gotten a small burn on his thigh from Mundi’s lightsaber, but that is almost negligent in the grand scheme, considering he’d had to stitch his side back together himself after Mace left—years of combat medicine serving him well.

The elevator glides slowly downward.

“You’re not going to get away,” Vos finally says, breaking the silence between them. “There’s no exits on any of the lower levels. You won’t be able to escape that way.”

Ben offers the boy a patronizing smile. “It is fortunate I’m not seeking to escape then, young one.”

The intensity of Vos’ frown increases, and Ben can feel the Dark Side stir faintly with the padawan’s rage. It feels like the soft warmth of embers—the smoldering heat of a quenched flame. It would only take the right fuel to bring it to life once again. “If you’re not trying to escape, then where in the hells are we going?”

“I have business in the lower levels,” Ben replies. “Did you know that this temple is built on the remains of an ancient Sith shrine?”

Vos blinks. “What?”

“Indeed. I suspect it to be the reason you’re struggling so much with escaping the control of the Dark Side.” At the startled look Quinlan gives him at his unexpected knowledge, Ben explains. “If you were dangerous, the Council would have simply locked you away in the cells, never to be seen or heard from again. If you were well enough to be trusted not to cause havoc, you would have been dismissed from the Order already. Instead you’re stuck in a state of limbo, attending mindhealing sessions and being escorted everywhere that isn’t your quarters.”

“What does that have to do with the shrine?”

“The shrine is an epicenter of the Dark Side of the Force. Even if the Order built its temple upon it, they never quite managed to completely cleanse this place of its power. While you can never un-fall, it is possible to get free of the Dark—to work in the grey between the Jedi and the Sith. You’ll never accomplish it while you’re stuck on a planet saturated with so much Darkness, however.”

The elevator slides to a slow stop, announcing the arrival at their destination with a cheery _ding_! It’s a stark contrast to the eerie quiet of what lays beyond the opening doors. It’s a large cavern, dark and silent except for the echoing of Ben’s footsteps when he exits the lift and moves out into the cave. The Order hasn’t bothered with illuminating this place, the only light spilling through the narrow doors of the lift. In the soft glow he can just make out the outline of an angular, obsidian building, similar in style to the Malachor temple only much, much older.

“I never had the opportunity to study this place when I was a Jedi,” he says to no one in particular when Quin’s hesitant footsteps still just behind him, apparently having decided to finally leave Mundi alone in the lift. There is that Jedi curiosity again, sending a young boy to follow a potential enemy onto home turf just to know what he’s doing. “No one could ever get the doors open.”

“You were a Jedi? I don’t remember you.”

Ben sighs “It was a very long time ago.”

Vos follows behind when Ben makes his way up the small flight of stairs to the entrance of the shrine. While he had been down here on a handful of occasiona during his time as a Councilor, he was honest with Quinlan when he told the Fallen padawan that he’d never done any extensive research. The large, ornately carved doors are sealed shut with the power of the Dark Side—an impassable obstacle in his youth. Now though he can feel it brushing against him in greeting and whispering its welcome like an old friend reunited. This far below the surface, this close to the shrine, the Dark is thick and potent in a way Ben couldn’t ever hope to describe.

 _Hello, Brother_ , it murmurs and, judging by the way Vos’ head snaps around in search of the voice’s source, Ben isn’t the only one who hears it.

“Hello, my friend,” he replies, stepping up to the door and brushing his fingers along the delicate carvings. From what he can read, they seem to bear the Sith code, which Ben suspects to be the key to opening the doors.

Placing him palm flat on the door’s surface, he searches for the right words. While Ben is technically fluent in the language of the Sith, it’s not like one has a surplus of opportunities to practice it in the modern age. Consequently, the words are a bit rough until he grows used to their feeling on his tongue. By the time he reaches the end of the code, however, they are flowing as smooth and familiar as though he were speaking Basic.

“ _There is no peace, there is passion. Through passion I gain strength. Though strength I gain power. Through power I gain victory. Though victory my chains are broken. The Force shall set me free._ ”

The script on the door glows in response to his power, and with a loud groan the ancient locks awaken from their slumber. Ticking and whirring fill the chamber before falling silent once more with a final _clunk_. When Ben pushes at the door, it swings open with only the minor resistance expected from a thousand years’ disuse.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to the Force, and feels its pulse of acknowledgement. “Quinlan?”

“Yes?” The padawan answers, stepping slowly forward. He is obviously uncomfortable; despite his current status of Fallen, he is still unwilling to truly accept the Dark Side.

Ben unhooks Mundi’s lightsaber from his belt, holding it out to the young Kiffar. Vos stares, rightfully suspicious. “If anyone—or anything—but me comes back through this door, get to Master Mundi and get out of here.”

Reaching out, Vos plucks the weapon from his hand and skitters back a few paces, as though expecting the gesture to be a trick. His knuckles are tight around the lightsaber, golden eyes wide as he nods. “Yeah, ok.”

With a final nod in Vos’ direction, Ben steps into the shadow of the shrine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Dooku & Ani bonding and Ben going to do some stupid shit. Way 2 go Ben.


	27. Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody Makes Terrible Decisions: Part One

The moment Ben steps into the shrine, he is no longer himself.

_Ben is eight years old, and his fellow initiates give him sideways glances as they pass him in the library or in the classroom or in their clan’s quarters in their sparse free time. Obi-Wan Kenobi always seems to have his nose in a holobook, reading and learning everything that he can. He has friends, yes, a select few who are willing to put up with his ticks, but for the most part he is isolated even amongst their clan. This doesn’t particularly bother him, he is here to prepare for padawanhood and not to make friends, with the exception of Bruck Chun’s constant teasing. The other initiate has a way of getting under his skin unlike any other member of the Dragon Clan. Bant and Garen try to talk him down, try to remind him that he is better than Bruck’s taunts, but sometimes they’re unsuccessful. Sometimes Chun’s words hit the wrong nerve at the wrong time, and Obi-Wan gives the other initiate exactly the reaction he wants. They go down, fists flying, and when the Crèche Master pulls them apart, sends them to meditate on their emotions without dinner, Obi-Wan feels a potent anger boiling under his skin. He’s doing his best; why can’t they see that?_

_Ben is eleven years old, and every day the Dragon Clan’s shared quarters grows emptier and emptier. Masters come and go, and with them the bunks that have housed initiates for most of their lives are cleared out. They pack their meager belongings, Jedi do not have material attachments, and follower their new guardians out to begin the next step in their journey to becoming Masters themselves. Obi-Wan is never among them. Despite his test scores and his proficiency with a lightsaber, the Masters pass him over without so much as a second thought. He hears their whispers; they are impossible to ignore. Brash, bold, emotional. They think him unfit for training as a Knight. They think he could serve them better in the Agricorp or the Mining corp or perhaps in the healing halls—somewhere his emotions will not pose so big an obstacle to overcome. Obi-Wan stays strong, holds out hope that the right Master will come along, but then one day Garen is gone. Then Bant. And then he is alone. The only solace he gets comes in knowing that Bruck Chun is stuck in the same situation. They take up bunks on far ends of the room, now so quiet without so many of their number. Sometimes, at night, he hears the other boy’s sniffling and choked sobs, and feel a vindictive pleasure at Chun’s suffering. It’s not the Jedi way; he doesn’t think he cares._

_Ben is thirteen, and no Master ever came to claim him. The transport to the mining facility he’s being sent to is old and rusty, ever turbulent. He’s thirteen, and no longer a Jedi, and the Master that snubbed his nose at him is somewhere on this ship. The feeling of abandonment weighs heavy on his mind, and the temptation he feels when a golden-eyed man offers him a chance to feel wanted again is so powerful it almost overcomes him. He can’t, though. Not with Qui-Gon right there. The man may not care an inkling for Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan cares for him. As angry as he is, as much as he can’t stand the thought of having to complete this journey when the matter of Xanatos is dealt with, he can’t condemn the Jedi Master to death. So he funnels that rage into something productive, and together they survive. Afterwards, Master Jinn takes him as his padawan. A part of Obi-Wan will always be bitter that it took nearly giving his life for Qui-Gon to see his worth._

_Ben is twenty-five, and there’s a shield between himself and his Master and the Sith Lord they first encountered on Tatooine. Twelve years of apprenticeship end in tragedy, and Obi-Wan feels that old, familiar rage again. At the Sith, for killing his Master; at Qui-Gon, for casting him aside before the Council; at himself, for not being good enough despite everything he’s done. It is not the Jedi way to hate, but dangling from a precarious grip on the side of the pit, he doesn’t think he cares. It’s easy to call upon that hate to fuel his power. It gives him strength and speed and drive that win him the battle. The Sith topples, cleaved in half by Obi-Wan’s blade, into the pit, and the padawan holds his Master in his arms as Qui-Gon draws his last breaths. Even now he has no words for Obi-Wan—only that the boy, his replacement, must be trained. Jinn lays this burden upon Obi-Wan, and then he dies. Tears sting at Obi-Wan’s eyes, and he knows they’re not entirely sorrow. That rage is still boiling, toxic, in his gut. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be free of it again._

There are more memories. Of Anakin’s padawanhood, of the war, of his exile. Ben Kenobi, Darth Adelfos, strides through the entrance hall of the shrine and sees his life play out before him. Every moment, every breath, every hot spike of hatred that he desperately tried to smother under the image of the perfect Jedi. He steps free from the memory field shaking under the strain of control, but he does not let his anger break him. After all these years, he has learned to master his emotions. This is one test that he will not fail.

The next room is the main hall, the center of the shrine. The Dark Side is different here than it was only just outside the walls. Here, the Dark is wild and raw; an ancient power, nearly untouched for a thousand years. He can feel the weight of its attention as though it were sentient, as though it were passing judgement. In his youth, Anakin had often spoken of the Force that way: as though it was a living being instead of a simple energy field. Ben thinks that he perhaps understands what the boy meant, now. If this overwhelming sense of awe is what Anakin feels from the Force all the time, he is not envious.

Striding to the center of the room, Ben passes statues of Sith from an era long past. They tower over him, figures carved from black stone, fearsome in visage and undoubtedly great in strength. For all Ben’s research during his time as a Jedi, information was scarce on individual Sith. On the Order, yes, and their tradition, but he knows no names to put to these faces. If he had more time, he would read the inscriptions carved into the base of each towering Lord and Lady. That is not what he has come for, however; those are questions for another day. There is a raised platform on the far end of the room, and Ben makes its way to its base. The cold tile is not the most comfortable, but he kneels nonetheless, bowing his head and closing his eyes as he reaches out to the Force.

 _You are the one they call ‘Brother’_. The Dark says. _The Fallen, who has come and gone and come again. Tell us, little Brother, what brings you to this place?_

“I seek answers,” Ben replies honestly. There is no sense in lying here; there are no deceptions in the Force. “I desire the path to the Master of the Line of Bane. I know he has been here.”

_You would stand against the Line of Bane? You? A Fallen Jedi?_

“Sidious does not yet know it, but he and I have quite a bit of unfinished business. I would not have been returned to this time if I were going to cower from him and his kind.”

_There is death and destruction in what you seek. Are you certain this is the path you wish to tread?_

Ben nods, though only to himself. “I have tried patience, and peace, and in another life they failed me. If it is war that Sidious desires, then it is was that he shall have—but I will not wait for him to strike. Not again. If we are to fight, I will make the first move. I will not play the defensive any longer.” Ben demands, “So I say again: show me the way.”

He thinks he hears something like laughter, if the Force could laugh. There is a warmth around him, a vague sense of approval. Whatever the Force was seeking out it him, it has found it. _You are brash, little Brother_ , it declares, _but we feel the strength of your convictions. Such anger, such hatred, it will make you strong. We will guide you to the path you seek._

* * *

 

The _Negotiator_ comes out of hyperspace just short of their destination. It’s rocky, but then it always is. Anakin hadn’t gotten around to repairing the stabilizers that would make the transition from hyperspace smoother, as the last time he did repairs, he was more concerned with making sure everything was functional elsewhere so that they wouldn’t get torn to piece when _entering_ hyperspace. Dooku grumbles unhappily about it, but Anakin chooses not to add his own commentary. He’ll fix the issue when he has some more free time.

Having been helped to the cockpit shortly before their arrival, Anakin can see the Jedi transport ship though the transparisteel pane. It’s a bit further out than he would have liked, but a skilled pilot would still be able to reach the ship before it picked up on their presence. And swiftness would definitely be a necessity in this case, as a transport full of Jedi younglings on their way to collect their first kyber crystals would certainly be jumpy. Especially when those particular younglings are being escorted by a Jedi padawan anxious to prove himself to a Master who often struggles to see past his mistakes. Not that Anakin has told Dooku any of this, of course. He would certainly be opposed to Anakin’s plan if he explained his intentions. As much progress as they’ve made on this journey, this would definitely send them spiraling backwards.

“Is that the ship you’re looking for?” Dooku asks from his place in the captain’s chair.

“Yeah, that’s it. Give me the stick.”

Dooku scoffs. “You are still healing. It was a miracle I was able to drag you in here before our arrival. You are in no position to be flying the ship.”

“We need to catch up to them before they realize something’s wrong and contact the Council, and I was the best pilot in the Order,” Anakin argues.

“Was there anything you _weren’t_ the best at?” Dooku sneers.

“Yeah, basically everything a Jedi is _actually_ supposed to be good at. Now let me fly.”

Dooku sighs, sounding particularly put-upon, but pushes out of the captain’s seat without further complaint. Anakin has to brace himself for the move; the bacta Dooku plastered all over his back is keeping the pain of his burns manageable, but it’s still an unpleasant sensation.

“Just what is on this ship that you’re so keen on getting to?” the older man asks. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t been particularly forthcoming on the details.”

“If we play our cards right? A way to get my Master back.”

Dooku mutters something that sounds along the lines of, “Because that answer is neither vague nor unsatisfying,” but Anakin isn’t really listening. His attention is firmly fixed on the Jedi transport, mapping out the best way to approach the vessel. He had installed a rudimentary cloaking device on the _Negotiator_ that should keep them off the transport’s scanners for the time being, but that doesn’t mean one of the ship’s occupants couldn’t just look out a window and see them coming.

In the end, he decides on a swift approach, hoping to minimalize the risk of being seen before they’re close enough to intercept. The ship’s engines whine, not made for the elaborate maneuvers Anakin had been privy to in his Starfighter during the Clone Wars. He makes a mental note to get them a better ship, one of these days. The Jedi become aware of their presence far too late, when Anakin has already brought the ship up close enough that he can make out the vessel’s docking port. The piloting droid that is captaining does their best to make that particular maneuver difficult, engaging in evasive action, but Anakin is an experienced pilot well acquainted with boarding uncooperative vessels. He brings them in to dock before the Jedi transport has gotten very far.

Anakin takes his time getting himself together. The Jedi aren’t going anywhere, and it’s not like they’ll have any real competition even when they do start this confrontation. The only people on that ship are a dozen at most unarmed initiates and a padawan whose skills and reactions Anakin knows as well, if not better, than his own. There’s really no reason to rush.

Dooku, however, seems to be quite antsy about this whole thing. Anakin can’t really blame him; this will be the man’s first encounter with the Jedi Order since his Fall. His first encounter with young Padawan Kenobi. A small part of Anakin wants to tell the man to stay in the ship and spare him the awkwardness of that confrontation. He doesn’t, though. This had to happen sometime. Better to do it now, when Anakin is around to referee, than later.

“Come on,” he calls, making his way to the docking passage. “I’ll handle the passengers. You go to the cockpit and deal with the captain.”

Keying in the code, the blast doors slide open to reveal Padawan Kenobi and a small collection of initiates just down the tunnel connecting the two vessels. The padawan has his lightsaber in hand, unlit, and the initiates hover behind him, holding whatever blunt instruments they’d managed to find in the time between noticing the approaching ship and Anakin making his appearance. Kenobi’s eyes widen when they meet the Sith Apprentice’s, and Anakin is striding down the tunnel, all cold, collected confidence, when the padawan sputters, “Change of plans, young ones. Run!”

This is a familiar feeling: watching the back of the initiates as they flee his presence. The Dark Side nips at his heels, encouraging him to give chase, but he’s learned not to give into its egging. Instead he takes his time, prowling through the ship in the slow, leisurely steps of the predator he’d been in a past life as he searches for his prey. This isn’t the first time he’s sought out the Jedi’s young with nefarious intentions. He wouldn’t have thought he would willingly return to such a state of mind, but times change. Plans change. Ben is still blocking their Bond, and Anakin has never been good at making his own decisions.

“I will find them, Obi-Wan,” he says to the empty halls, knowing the metal of the ship will carry his voice to its intended recipients. He hopes Dooku will remain in the cockpit; things could get ugly if he doesn’t.

Anakin follows the soft whispers of the Force, the gentle glow of the initiates’ presence. They cannot shield themselves properly, yet. Their loss is Anakin’s gain. Occasionally he can hear the scuff of boots on durasteel or the whispering of younglings that indicate he is on the right track. “You can’t hide from me forever.”

“I don’t plan to,” echoes back to him, and Anakin turns to see Kenobi standing at the next bend, fierce determination on his face and his lightsaber ignited. “If you want them, you’re going to have to go through me.”

Kenobi lunges, and Anakin sidesteps the first strike without even reaching for his own weapon. The pain of his injured back and the irritation he feels about this whole situation fuels his speed.

He’s improved since their last confrontation, Anakin thinks, finally forced to ignite his own 'saber. Obi-Wan still lacks the finesse and battlefield grace of his older self, but that will come in time. He is now building on a solid foundation, which Anakin is strangely pleased to note. Their weapons clash as they weave through the narrow halls, one aiming to injure and the other to disarm. Anakin doesn’t really want to hurt Obi-Wan; he just needs the padawan subdued and out of his way.

“What are you even doing here?” Obi-Wan snarls when their blades lock, hissing and spitting. “What do you want with the younglings?”

“I need my Master back,” Anakin answers. It’s not a surplus of information, but it gets the point across. “Things to do, people to kill. You know, the usual.”

Breaking the lock, Kenobi slips into a maneuver that Anakin knows well. The padawan intends to finish their fight with a series of Ataru blows, in deviation from the Soresu he’d employed in the rest of the fight. It is unfortunate for him that Anakin is aware of a flow in his form. Ben had recognized and corrected it when he began to spar with Anakin in earnest during the boy’s padawan years, but at this age it would still go unnoticed. All he has to do it wait it out.

Sure enough, Obi-Wan draws him arm back to swing and shifts too far, leaving himself completely open for the briefest of moments. It is all Anakin needs. He kicks Kenobi in the chest, his Force-enhanced strength send the smaller man sprawling down the hallway. The padawan’s lightsaber skitters away, and Anakin takes a moment to revel in the victory as he watches Obi-Wan attempt to drag himself upright, clearly shaken by the unexpected blow.

He doesn’t get much time to gloat, however, because in the next second his back explodes in agony. Only barely just catching himself from crumpling to the floor, Anakin whirls to find the source of this new attack.

There is an initiate standing just behind him. A female twi’lek with pink skin and a fierce look in her eyes. She’s got what appears to be a space piece of piping in her hands, raised as though she intends to strike him with it again, though her grip falters when she realizes his full attention is on her. Still, she swings.

Anakin catches the makeshift weapon with his free hand, ripping it from her and throwing it out of reach. He hears Obi-Wan’s panicked moan when he advances on the girl, who stumbles backwards for each step forward he takes. He hears the padawan get to his feet, hears his lightsaber ignite, and has finally had enough of this foolishness. There was a purpose to this mission that Anakin needs to get back to. The ability to tolerate the padawan’s interference has suddenly fled him, no matter who said padawan may grow up to become.

Grabbing the girl, Anakin spins them, placing her between himself and Kenobi with his lightsaber hovering just above her throat. Kenobi freezes in place, eyes flickering from Anakin’s blade to the Sith’s face as though he can’t quite understand what he’s seeing. “Another step, and she dies” Anakin hisses.

“You wouldn’t,” Obi-Wan says, but doesn’t move.

The worst thing, Anakin thinks, is that Kenobi might actually believe that. The padawan tries to see the good in everyone, it has always been his flaw, and might actually believe Anakin too soft to murder a child for the simple crime of being in the way. As Darth Vader, right hand to the Emperor, he would have killed the girl just to make a point. “Do you really want to test that theory?” he asks instead, and from the look on Obi-Wan’s face, the boy really doesn’t.

“What do you want, Anakin?”

“I just need to have words with your Council,” Anakin replies.

“There are easier ways to do that.”

“Not if you want them to listen.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw clenches, but the padawan deactivates his lightsaber and hooks it back to his belt. Then he reaches for his com, palming it for a moment before tossing it at Anakin. The Sith releases his hold on the initiate long enough to catch it, his lightsaber deterrent enough to keep her from moving. He doesn’t have to ask for the Council’s frequency.

“Padawan Kenobi,” the voice of Mace Windu asks, sounding a bit frazzled. Anakin has no doubt that this has to do with whatever Ben is up to. “What’s going on out there? The guards at Ilum just reported that you never arrived.”

“I’m afraid Padawan Kenobi is busy at the moment, Master Windu,” Anakin drawls, and he would kill to see the look on Mace’s face right now.

“Lord Vader? Is that you?”

“The one and only.”

“What are you doing there, Skywalker?” The Master demands. “What’ve you done with Kenobi and the initiates?”

“You have something that belongs to me, Mace,” Anakin growls. “I’d like to propose a trade. Your wayward students for my Master.”

“The Jedi do not negotiate with Sith.”

Anakin feels his lip curl with disdain. “Think very carefully about this Mace. If your answer remains ‘no’, I start killing younglings.”

Switching the com off, Anakin hooks it to his belt. Obi-Wan is staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. The twi’lek girl is whimpering softly. Anakin doesn’t care. He’s going to get Ben back, one way or the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention last time that our friend Ev drew some more [ rad art ](http://the-obi-wan-for-you.tumblr.com/post/153469591627/a-d-e-l-f-o-s-i-need-you-to-understand-that) for this fic, this time of our boy Ben. Please go check that out and give them love.
> 
> We'll be back next week probably for part 2 of everybody making terrible decisions. Holidays are coming up. You know how it is. Thank ya'll for the continued support. See ya then.


	28. Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrible Decisions: Part 2

“Why are you doing this, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks for what feels like the hundredth time, watching the Sith Apprentice wrestle another writhing, spitting initiate into the transport’s small cargo hold. He’s asked every single time that Vader has returned, and each time has received the same quiet, bitter response of _I need my Master back_ ; he doesn’t expect this time to be any different. As long as Vader is within earshot, however, he will keep asking. He will keep asking and asking and praying to the Force that maybe this time Anakin will hear him.

Because the question he is asking is not the one Anakin is answering—not entirely, at least. Obi-Wan suspects Anakin knows this and is being purposefully obtuse, answering the surface question instead of the one layered beneath. He needs his Master back, yes, but why? What about the Sith Master, Darth Adelfos, makes him so indispensable that Vader would throw his morals to the wayside? What about the man could make Vader capable of this in his absence?

Obi-Wan has seen the Light that lurks behind Vader’s molten eyes. That night on the balcony, at the masquerade, he had heard the man’s story and experienced the tenderness Anakin Skywalker is capable of. If asked, he would have sworn to anyone that the man standing before him would never harm anyone, let alone defenseless children, without adequate prompting. Yet here they are, Obi-Wan’s trust betrayed, and he finds himself asking and asking and asking, stranded far from anything he knows, desperate for explanation. _Why? Why? Why?_

What is so special about the damned Sith Master that he is deserving of such unquestioning loyalty despite the destruction he’s left in his wake? Despite the bruises he’s left on Vader’s own skin?

The Apprentice snarls when his current captive, a young wookee, manages to sink sharp teeth into the man’s flesh arm. He doesn’t let go, however, even as his own blood falls to durasteel floor in a soft _pitter-patter_. The youngling releases his grip on Vader when the futility of the action becomes apparent, yowling something up at the Sith when he’s finally dropped to the floor next to his crèchemates. Obi-Wan isn’t quite fluent in shyriiwook yet beyond the barest basics, but can infer from the tone that they aren’t compliments. He’s surprised when Vader hisses something back, the syllables awkward and clunky on his tongue but effective in silencing the youngling nonetheless. Shyriiwook is not a language that Jedi are required to learn, with those who do know it having learned either out of necessity or their Master’s insistence. Obi-Wan picked up what he knows from a mission with Qui-Gon; why does Vader know it?

Sinking to the floor in front of the doorway, on the opposite side of the hold from Obi-Wan and the initiates, the Sith doesn’t bother to ask whether or not there are more younglings lurking in the bowels of the ship before beginning to prod at his wound. He doesn’t need to; the younglings are still too inexperienced to shield from the searching mind of such a powerful Force user. They are all present and accounted for, curled around Obi-Wan and each other, attempting to release their paralyzing fear of the Sith into the Force.

“I need my Master back,” Vader sighs, looking up from his sluggishly bleeding arm to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes. “I know you want a different answer—want some heartfelt confession of how I’ve been forced to do this—but I don’t have one to give.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but feels the sharp tang of disappointment with Anakin’s softly-spoken confession. His eyes drop away from the Sith’s gold, down to the trembling initiates curled into his side, and wraps his arms tighter around them as the Apprentice continues.

“I have done terrible things, Obi-Wan… things that would horrify and disgust you. I killed men, pillaged towns, razed entire _worlds_ , and I did it because I thought it was right. I looked upon the destruction left in my wake and thought I was doing it for the benefit of the galaxy. In twenty years, it never once occurred to me that my violence, my reign over a galaxy of terrified civilians, was the very same problem I thought I was solving.

“I struggle with making the right decisions—with seeing what is best for the galaxy, rather than what is best for myself. The Jedi Council thought it was a product of my childhood in slavery. Ben, though? Ben sees everything in the way it is meant to be seen; he is attuned to the will of the Force in a way I can only ever hope to be. _I_ may not be able to make the right choice, blinded as I often am by emotion, but I can always count on my Master to do so—just as I can count on him to put a lightsaber through my heart if it becomes clear that my control is slipping.”

The Bond between Adelfos and Vader is more powerful than anything Obi-Wan has experienced before; he’d seen it in action at the masquerade. They can communicate telepathically, feel each other over great distances, and if what Qui-Gon says is true, even share the same mental space. It’s something he, even as close as he is with Qui-Gon, struggles to fully comprehend. The idea that Vader’s Master is so callous that he could kill his own Apprentice turns Obi-Wan’s stomach almost as much as knowing that Vader thinks so little of himself that the prospect of his own death is nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“Do you think he’d condone this?” Obi-Wan asks. “If he’s supposedly doing what he’s doing to better the galaxy, do you think he’ll be ok with you murdering children in his name?”

“No,” Vader replies. “He may well kill me for this. That being said, I would still do it if I had to. The galaxy needs him—has always needed him. I am just the weapon he wields.”

Silence falls, broken only by the shuffling and sniffling of the younglings or Vader’s occasional hiss of discomfort when he prods at his new wound. Obi-Wan notices the way the man sits, shifting awkwardly, as though he can’t quite find a comfortable position. Occasionally he will wince, sitting ramrod straight for a time until an unseen injury ceases its torment for the moment. He is obviously wounded beyond what Obi-Wan can see from the explosion at the Alderaan palace, but he is still here risking everything for the sake of his Master. Obi-Wan is unsure whether he is impressed or horrified by this devotion.

“Who is he?” Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from whispering. A growing part of him has to know. Which of their number had developed into a man that can bend the galaxy’s most powerful Force-wielder to his will? To whom does the man who sits before him love so much that he would give his life without the blink of an eye for the sake of his Master’s whims?

Vader blinks, appearing genuinely surprised by the question. “I’m sorry?”

“Your Master. Who is he?”

“They didn’t tell you?” Anakin asks, brow furrowing with something Obi-Wan can’t place. “They just packed you up and shipped you out and they _didn’t even tell you_?”

“The Council didn’t tell me what?”

Anakin doesn’t seem to hear his question, talking more to himself than Obi-Wan. “I thought for sure that you knew when you ran from me,” Anakin says with a bitter chuckle. “But boy, they sure were in a hurry to get you away from your Master, weren’t they?”

Obi-Wan’s had just about enough of this beating around the bush. “What are you _talking about_?” he snarls, frustration wearing on him. He just wants an answer.

Vader is up and across the room before Obi-Wan can register it happening, the initiates scrambling away from him as the Sith Apprentice approaches. “ _This,_ ” Vader snarls, catching Obi-Wan’s face in his hands, tilting their foreheads together “ _this_ is what I’m talking about!”

And the padawan finds himself consumed by the fire of Vader’s power, dragged down into the depths of memory.

* * *

 

_He’s standing in a hall outside of one of the Temple’s training halls. There’s a fresh bruise blooming over the surface of his cheek and a hand resting heavily on his shoulder. He sniffles, wiping the blood slowly trickling from his nose on the sleeve of his tattered tunic. Anger simmers under his skin, the pressure of it building with no way to release. The fight he’d had with Padawan Olin during ‘saber practice had helped, except that now he’s in trouble for his actions. Violence is not the Jedi way, but it is Anakin’s way._

_The sound of hurried footsteps force him to look up from his feet, and he watches a harried-looking young Knight jog down the hallway toward them. He’s not a particularly imposing man, auburn hair just starting to grow out from the traditional padawan’s cut and patchy stubble on his chin. Anakin tries to move toward him, but the hand on his shoulder clamps down hard, holding him in place at Master Windu’s side. He feels his Master’s distress at his state through their Bond, which has developed quickly since he was first tied to the young Knight; the anger spikes again when the Councilor refuses to let him go to his Master._

_“Anakin? Are you alright?” his Master asks, kneeling before him and catching hold of his chin, turning his face in attempt to see the bruising in better light._

_“This is the third physical altercation Padawan Skywalker has been involved in in as many months,” Windu says, dragging the Knight’s attention from his student and up to the Councilor. He pushes himself quickly to his feet, releasing Skywalker as though he’s been burned and looking vaguely guilty under Windu’s penetrative stare._

_“Master Windu, I am very sorry for—”_

_“No, Kenobi,” Mace snaps. “You swore to the Council that you would get this behavior under control.”_

_Anakin steps willingly away from the Councilor’s side when Kenobi brushes Windu’s hand off his shoulder, replacing it with his own and dragging the padawan toward him. He leans into his Master’s side, letting the comfort Obi-Wan is pouring into the Bond fill his mind and wash the simmering rage away. “We’re working on it, Master Windu,” Kenobi says curtly. “I’ll you’ll recall, Anakin is still quite new to Temple life.”_

_“That’s not an excuse, Obi-Wan. You were told that the boy was unfit for training, yet you continue to defy the Council with your insistence—”_

_“I will handle it, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan interjects. “Now if you will excuse us, my padawan is in need of medical attention.”_

_Anakin finds himself abruptly swung off his feet and up into his Master’s arms, wrapping his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck as he adjusts to the sudden change in position. The Knight turns, storming away from Windu with enough speed that his displeasure with the Councilor is communicated without appearing disrespectful._

_“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says as they approach their quarters, tucking his face into the hollow of his Master’s throat. The scruff on the man’s skin scratches at the side of his face. “Ferris called me names again, and I just got so angry…”_

_Palming the panel next to the door, Obi-Wan lets them into their small apartment and away from the judgmental gazes of the other Jedi they pass. “It’s not your fault, padawan,” he sighs. “Padawan Olin should know better than to pick fights. Jedi are supposed to celebrate differences, not exploit them to hurt others.”_

_“Master Windu thinks I shouldn’t have sunk to his level,” he confesses as Obi-Wan sets him down on his sleep couch, then disappearing into the fresher to get a rag to clean him up. “He says a Jedi shouldn’t let insults rile them.”_

_“Master Windu has lived his whole life as a Jedi, Anakin; you have not. They should not expect the same from you as they expect from another padawan. You will learn, but it will take time. I think the Council struggles to understand that.”_

_“I’m sorry they’re angry with you,” Anakin mumbles._

_“Don’t be sorry for things that are not your fault, dear one,” Obi-Wan replies. “I made the decision to train you against the Council’s recommendation; you are not to blame for that.”_

_“Ok,” Anakin mumbles, allowing the Knight to guide him under the blankets when he’s clean. He hadn’t realized how much the fight had taken out of him until his head hits the pillow and Obi-Wan is tucking the blankets close around him._

_“Rest now, my padawan,” Kenobi murmurs, smoothing Anakin’s hair back and leaning down to rest his forehead gently against the younger’s for just a moment. Affection floods their bond, and the padawan can feel himself drifting off. “We’ll talk more when you wake.”_

* * *

 

Obi-Wan gasps for breath as he surfaces from the memory, shoving the Sith Apprentice off him in blind horror and sending the man sprawling onto his back on the cold durasteel. His own voice rings in his ears as he struggles to process the sight of himself, oblivious to the wretched whine Vader releases as he delicately pulls himself upright. Older, stronger, and at odds with the Council, the Obi-Wan Kenobi from Vader’s memories would one day fall from a powerful, respected Jedi Councilor to the Sith Master he’s encountered. He’s seen his future—or at least once potential future—and it terrifies him.

What is even more gut-wrenching is knowing that the Council _knew_. The Council knew Adelfos’ true identity when they shipped Obi-Wan off on this mission. They knew, and the first thing they’d done was load him up on this transport and get him as far away from the inevitable fallout as they possibly could.

And Obi-Wan knows there will be fallout. He can’t feel Qui-Gon’s presence from this far away, their own Bond not nearly as strong as the one Vader shares with his Master, but the man’s disdain for the Dark Side is well known among the Order. They had already been walking on eggshells, their fragile relationship held together by the barest of threads and only just beginning to mend. This revelation will undoubtedly ruin everything they’ve been working toward, and the Council had seen it coming. Was it really so obvious? Was their struggle to connect in the face of the reemergence of the Sith so apparent?

“Do you see, Obi-Wan?” Vader asks. “Do you understand, now?”

“I-I don’t—” he stutters, struggling for words.

“He has always been there for me; he has always supported me. Even when I fell, when I hated him, he was still there, trying to guide me down the right path.” The Apprentice’s apparent earnestness sickens him. “How could I abandon him after that? How could I not love him?”

“Oh gods,” Obi-Wan moans, pushing himself backwards across the floor, away from Vader, until his back hits the wall of the hold and there’s nowhere else to go. “Oh Sith’s kriffing hells.”

Vader pushes himself to his feet, taking a shaky step toward Obi-Wan’s prone form only to be forestalled by the half-dozen initiates he rounded up earlier. They plant themselves between padawan and Apprentice, glaring up at the Sith in challenge. They are no match for the man, unarmed and standing only as tall as his hip, but they will not go down without a fight. They know Obi-Wan tried to protect them, and now that the padawan is all but defenseless in his panic, they will attempt to return the sentiment even if it proves to be their death.

For a moment, Obi-Wan thinks that Vade will make good on the threat he made to Made. He glares down at the younglings, agitation sparking in his eyes, for a long, tense moment. Then the sound of a communicator ringing cuts through the silence. Vader snatches it from his belt and sweeps from the hold, leaving Obi-Wan alone with his thoughts.

* * *

 

 Coruscant’s air traffic roars past the senate building, countless drivers and occupants oblivious to the goings-on within as they go about their day. In the hustle to get from one pointless activity to another, they do not look twice into the not-quite panoramic windows of Naboo Senator Sheev Palpatine’s office, and therefore do not see the man who lounges at the Senator’s desk. Muddy boots propped on the surface of the desk, smearing dirt on the files of flimsi and holopads also present, Ben sips languidly from a cup of something alcoholic that he’d liberated from the cabinets on the far side of the room.

This office isn’t as nice as the one Sidious occupied during his stint as Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, but it is still a far sight better than many of the offices available to Republic senators. Large windows line the rear wall of the room, offering a scenic view of the courtyard and busy Coruscant life behind. Just before them is an ornately-made desk, at which Ben sits. There are several matching chairs on the other side for visitors. Cabinets and bookshelves line the walls, holding numerous volumes of legal tomes and some of the personal keepsakes that Sidious has amassed over his considerable years. It is undoubtedly his seniority that has earned the Naboo senator this space, and not any nefarious dealings.

As far as Ben is aware, the other Sith Master takes great pains to fly almost flawlessly below the radar. He is neither particularly good not particularly bad at his chosen occupation, staying in office as long as he has more due to public indifference than any real skill on his part. He turns in his paperwork on time and has not passed any particularly unpopular legislation, making him a tolerable enough representative that the citizens of Naboo can never be bothered to run a campaign against him whenever his terms end. The subsequent reelections have bought Sidious considerable time to put his plans in motion.

He glances up when he hears the office door click closed, meeting the eyes of the Sith Master turned Senator as he makes his way cautiously into the room. There is no surprise in Sidious’ face as he edges his way slowly across the room—only the suspicion of finding one’s enemy on your own home turf. As Ben had been making no effort to hide his presence from the Baneite Sith, he is not at all taken aback by the man’s behavior.

Sidious’ hand hovers at his waist, and Ben can spot a small commlink tucked into his belt. “There’s no need to summon your security,” Ben calls. “I’m unarmed; you’re unarmed. There’s no reason we can’t have a pleasant conversation between Masters.”

“So, you are the Sith Master the Jedi have told us so much about,” Sidious observes, falsely pleasant, as his hand drifts away from the commlink. Calling his security now that Ben has announced himself would undoubtedly raise more questions than the other Master is comfortable with. “Darth… Adelfos, wasn’t it?”

Ben nods. “Indeed. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Darth Sidious.”

The other Master finally approaches, and the polite thing to do would be to get up out of the man’s chair and take one of the visitor’s seats. It is unfortunate for Sidious that Ben is not feeling particularly polite, and keeps himself firmly planted in the senator’s chair. With all the grace of a dignitary, Sidious sits himself on the opposite side of the desk and the two Masters stare each other down.

This is the first time they have seen each other, in one way or another. Ben had dealt extensively with the kindly Chancellor during the Clone Wars, but had never come face to face with the Sith Master that stole his student away from him; Sidious has undoubtedly heard things about his opposing Master from his students, but this is the first time they’ve interacted without proxy.

“Tell me, Adelfos, what is it that’s brought you before me today?” Sidious asks, collecting the decanter and spare glass that Ben had left out on the desk for his arrival and pouring himself a drink. “And how did you find me?”

“You had a series of tunnels dug from the basement of this very building into the caverns below the Jedi temple—specifically into the cavern containing the Sith shrine that the temple was built atop. While I am meant to be a prisoner back in the temple itself, I thought I might take a break from that to have a few words with you, Master to Master, as it seems your Apprentices have not been diligent in delivering my messages.”

Sidious takes a long drag of his own glass, not commenting on Ben’s neat avoidance of _how_ he identified and located the other Sith Master. “And just what message were you attempting to convey?”

Ben holds Sidious’ gaze, all genial manner dropping as he announces, “Whatever you’re planning for the Jedi Order? Stop.”

The other Sith’s brows rise in genuine surprise. “Surely you jest,” he says, and when it fails to elicit any response, Sidious sets his glass neatly aside and turns his full attention on Ben. “You would align yourself with those pitiful creatures? The enemy of the Dark Side? Of the Sith?”

“I have little patience for the ancient disputes of our peoples, nor the power-hungry doctrine perpetuated by your lineage,” Ben scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “I stand for the Balance. There cannot be Dark without Light; one without the other. While I have no particular fondness for the Jedi, their Code outdated and poorly enforced, I will not stand by and allow you to threaten the Balance. I have a responsibility to the Force; if you intend to do it harm, me and mine will stand against you.”

“You and who? That so-called Apprentice of yours? From what Tyrannous tells me, he is hardly more than a petulant child. Do you really think he’ll stand beside you when the odds are so obviously out of your favor? Who’s to say he wouldn’t turn on you the moment a better offer comes along?”

“I have no concerns for Vader’s loyalties; he will not be swayed from my side. He has no desire for power, nor control. You have nothing to offer him.”

“Is that so?” Sidious drawls. “And what do you offer him, then, that you think I cannot?”

Ben lets the question hang in the air, downing the last dregs of his drink before removing his boots from Sidious’ desk and rising to his feet. “Quite frankly, Lord Sidious?” Ben says, rounding the desk, “The ability to make him moan like a pleasure-planet whore.”

He smirks at the absolutely dumbstruck look on Sidious’ face and takes great satisfaction in pressing his glass into the other Master’s hands, only to have it slide through limp fingers and shatter on the floor. “I must be getting back to the temple, I’m afraid, but thank you for the chat. I’d advise you take some time and think on my warning.”

Sidious says nothing as Ben prowls from the room and back down into the tunnels from whence he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll thought Ben was asking for some mystic powers nah fam the man literally just needed directions to his next Fight™.
> 
> It's been a rough couple days. Hope ya'll are holding up alright.


	29. Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> News at 10: Local author finally gets shit together and finishes a chapter.

The most disturbing thing about Adelfos, Qui-Gon comes to discover, is how much he looks like Obi-Wan in his sleep.

In the heat of the moment, it’s easy to pretend that the man before him is just another rogue Dark Side user. With his hands around Qui-Gon’s throat and his eyes glowing a molten gold, spewing accusations lingering from a life never lived, there is little that connects him to the faithful padawan who’d vied so hard for Qui-Gon’s attention and stuck faithfully at by his side for so many years. In wakefulness, Adelfos is hard and cold, a man aged well beyond his years by the trauma of the life he’s lived and died and lived again. If only it remained that way.

In sleep, however, those years fall away, and Qui-Gon can see his padawan in every line of the man’s body: in the way he curls in on himself, twitching occasionally in reaction to the dreams playing out behind his eyes; in the soft breaths he draws; in the small “o” of his mouth. Lying on the couch in the quarters he and his version of Jinn shared in a life come and gone, he is the spitting image of the boy Qui-Gon raised; he wonders how he could have ever missed it.

The fact that Adelfos had fallen asleep at all is testament to the relationship the pair had once shared. Emerging from the Sith Temple buried in the earth below their feet, he’d been met by several armed Jedi Masters awaiting the worst. It was just Adelfos, though, in a significantly better mood than he’d been in during their last encounter. The Masters had escorted him back to the healing halls to have his Bond with Jinn severed, then back to Jinn’s own quarters, as they had no better place to keep him without risking complications to the recently-severed Bond. It’s an excruciatingly delicate process and they can’t risk the chance he comes to harm from it, lest Vader carry out the threat he’s made. No matter how much Qui-Gon protests the intrusion.

Jinn brews two cups of tea, going through the motions on muscle memory rather than putting any real thought into the action. The scent of Sencha green permeates the air, and Adelfos is already rousing from his slumber by the time Qui-Gon returns with their mugs. Setting the Sith’s down on the small coffee table, Qui-Gon takes up position in an armchair on the opposite side of the table.

Adelfos rights himself and takes the mug with a familiar, sleepy sluggishness; Qui-Gon grimaces and averts his eyes.

“I’m surprised you haven’t made an escape attempt,” Jinn accuses, “I would have thought you wouldn’t want to stick around.”

“Why bother? Anakin will soon be arriving with your younglings to trade for my release. I have nothing pressing—not until Sidious makes his next move, and I have a feeling it may be some time before he’s prepared to do so.”

“You think you’re so much better than him,” Qui-Gon huffs, watching Adelfos over the rim of his cup. It earns him a raised brow as the Sith Master sips at his own tea. “This other Master—Sidious. You talk about him like he’s beneath you.”

“He is,” Adelfos replies, matter-of-fact. “While a formidable foe on the political battlefield, his goals are petty and self-serving. He falls short in his duties as a Master, leaving his Apprentices to fend for themselves if they ever want any chance of surviving long enough to even challenge him for the position of Master. My own Apprentice and I have, in our past lives, brought about the ends of them even without the added power of the Dark Side.”

“You aren’t any better than him,” Jinn argues. “You like to tell yourself that you are; you justify your actions by telling yourself you’re above him because you don’t desire power in the same way he does. Just because you don’t want the galaxy at your fingertips or the Jedi Order ground under your heel doesn’t make you any better. No, if anything, it makes you _worse_.

“From what I’ve come to understand, this _Sidious_ just wants power. He wants to sit at the top of the food chain and be acknowledged. But you? You seek power over something far greater. You want power over time and fate itself; you want to usher in this perfect new world that you see in your mind’s eye without a thought to what it costs the rest of us. People have a right to grow, to make their own decisions, and to experience everything that life has to offer. The ups and downs—all of it. Without those choices and those hardships and those opportunities, they will never become the people they are meant to be!” Qui-Gon snaps. “You can’t take away free will.”

“Some people can’t be trusted with the freedom of choice,” Ben replies, eyeing the Jedi Master. Neither id altogether surprised they’re arguing again, but at least things haven’t dissolved into a fist fight thus far.

Jinn sneers. “People like your Apprentice? Is that why you’ve seem to have taught the boy everything but how to act of his own violation? The reason he would throw his morals to the wayside to rescue you?”

“The last time Anakin was given the liberty of choice, he walked himself into Sidious’ arms and razed the Jedi Temple to the ground. He understands that it is in everyone’s best interest that look to me for guidance. I can hardly be held accountable for the decisions he makes when I’m not around to control him.”

“You can’t control everything, Kenobi,” Jinn warns, downing the last of his tea and stalking back into the kitchen. “One day you’re going to break something, and you won’t be able to fix it.”

* * *

 

Pain pulses behind Ben’s eyes like the throbbing of a phantom limb; a similar, though not identical sensation to those days so many years ago post-Qui-Gon and pre-Anakin. Returning to the temple ended him in a pair of handcuffs and a session with a mindhealer, severing the Bond between himself and Master Jinn. It’d hurt, but not nearly as badly as having it ripped crudely apart by the abruptness of death. He must confess that he takes some pleasure in the ache. It is a reminder of where he’s come from and where he’s going; like the removal of septic flesh. He is finally free to let go of his past—of Jedi Councilor Obi-Wan Kenobi—and grow into the man he is slowly becoming.

Despite the cuffs that keep his hands behind his back, there is a feeling of freedom filling up Ben’s chest. It feels like ropes have finally fallen from around him. No longer is he bound by lingering loyalties to a code he ceased to follow so, so many years ago; no longer is he restrained by those last thoughts of what Qui-Gon might think. The Jedi Master asked for the severing between them, and now Ben is free to simply _be_. It is a liberating feeling.

Still, Ben doesn’t need the Bond to know that Jinn is upset. In fact, he would go so far as to say that Qui-Gon is currently _furious_. He’d heard the man arguing in hushed tones with Mace on the way down to the hanger, things about Jedi not negotiating with Sith and so on. Jinn is of the opinion that they should throw the Sith Master in a deep, dark hole somewhere rather than trading him away. Unfortunately for Qui-Gon, despite how ham-handed and overdramatic Anakin’s plan is, he did manage to find something the Council would trade for. The lives of a half-dozen children are far more important to the Council than one Sith Lord.

The Jedi Temple’s hanger bay is unusually silent. Usually it’s alive with Jedi Masters and Knights and Padawan as they come and go, leaving for one mission or returning from another; with the shouted conversations of mechanics as they go through their checks and repairs; with the babbling of droids as they go about their business. Now, however, all is quiet as the Jedi Council and their prisoner  await the arrival of the transport carrying Anakin and his stolen cargo, those regular inhabitants of the cavernous space ushered out lest the cause complications in the already tense proceedings.

No one says a word as the ship lands, settling on an open landing pad with only the usual amount of jostling that one might expect of an older Jedi ship, but Ben can feel Anakin in the Force. The closer his Apprentice had come through atmo, the more pressure he’d put on Ben’s shields, forcing him to drop them or risk aggravating the migraine already pounding against his skull from the severed Bond. While the nap he’d taken in Jinn’s apartment had helped somewhat, it take more than a few hours to soothe the ache of separation.

The Apprentice is elated to finally be getting some attention from his Master, though Ben can feel the apprehension that simmers below the surface just as Anakin can undoubtedly sense his own carefully-controlled fury at the boy’s actions. While he is grateful to be getting out of the Temple in one piece—he can’t fight Sidious from inside a prison cell—Ben is still quite unhappy with the boy for risking the lives of Initiates to do so. Especially considering Anakin’s history.

They wait patiently—or impatiently, in the case of the Wookie Crèche Master who is quite ready to have her young charges back—for the ramp to lower. When it does, the initiates shuffle out in a clump, eyes wide and clinging to one another as though something might happen to one of them if they stray too far from the group. They hesitate at the base of the ramp, looking back up it as though waiting for something.

 _Something_ happens to be Anakin, who follows them down the ramp, pushing padawan Kenobi ahead of him. The white blade of his lightsaber blazes in the hollow of Obi-Wan’s throat, keeping the young Jedi close as an effective human shield. Following them is Dooku, who doesn’t move from the base of the ramp, as awkward as Ben has ever seen him before in the face of his former colleagues. Ben knows that just what Dooku had gotten up to once he left the Order was never confirmed. Now they know.

Anakin murmurs something to the younglings, too low for the waiting collection of Jedi and Ben to hear, and the younglings dart across the bay to their waiting Master. The Wookie gathers them all in her massive arms, inspecting them one by one for injury. Most of them are uninjured, but a few carry bumps and scrapes where they’d obviously tried to fight Anakin over their captivity. There is blood, dried patchy and dark, on the muzzle of a young Wookie initiate; obviously they managed to at least injure Anakin a bit.

“Next my Master,” Skywalker calls across the bay, still holding the younger Kenobi in front him. “Then, I’ll let padawan Kenobi go.”

Ben glances over his shoulder, trying to gauge Jinn’s reaction to this entire situation. The Master’s face is, for the first time since he met the man, completely unreadable as he stares down Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Dooku. Really, Ben thinks, he should be showing more concern for this predicament than he is. It’s a vaguely unsettling thought, but one that slips from his mind when he’s finally free from his bindings. The cuffs restraining him hadn’t been Force-suppressing, another of Anakin’s conditions, but they did chafe like a bitch.

Mace offers Ben’s lightsaber hesitantly, as though not quite sure the Sith Master won’t try to strike them down as soon as the weapon is in his hand. Despite it being a fairly safe assumption to make, it’s still downright offensive, and Ben has to focus on not just snatching the blade and stomping off. Instead he hooks it to the belt of his borrowed robes, offers the Jedi party a salute in parting, and strides across the hanger to meet his Apprentice.

“Master!” Anakin greets joyously as he approaches, thumbing off his ‘saber and shoving Obi-Wan roughly away. The padawan stumbles, losing his footing and falling in a heap to the floor. “I’m so glad you’re—”

Anakin joins the younger Kenobi only a moment later, Ben drawing back a fist and punching his pupil across the face as soon as he’s within striking range. The younger man goes to his knees and doesn’t flinch away when Ben grabs a fistful of his hair with one hand, forcing the boy’s head back. The other hand goes to his lightsaber, igniting the blade close enough to the delicate skin of his neck that the warning not to speak is implicit—any attempt to do so would undoubtedly end with burnt skin.

The younger man doesn’t outwardly look particularly remorseful, and Ben can feel his conflict through their Bond. Anakin knows he messed up in threatening younglings, that it’s a step down a path he no longer wants to walk, but at the same time he is glad to have his Master out of the Jedi’s clutches. He meets Ben’s stare evenly, accepting of whatever punishment he sees fit to dole out. Even if it is death.

“Let this be a warning,” Ben snarls, ignoring Obi-Wan’s horrified stare at his rough treatment of Anakin, “to _never_ do that again.”

Receiving a shallow nod of understanding, as much as the blade will allow, Ben deactivates his ‘saber. “Good,” he murmurs, changing his grip from the boy’s hair to the front of his tunic, pulling him up instead of holding him down. “Now, come here.”

There is something indescribable about kissing Anakin Skywalker in front of the Jedi Council. It feels like something out of a fever dream—having an old, buried desire fulfilled. He’d always wanted to, somewhere in the back of his mind. Whenever the Council spoke ill of Anakin or Obi-Wan’s attachment to him, he wanted to leap from his Council seat and show them _just_ how attached he’d become. Then, it would have been career suicide and undoubtedly the end of the easy companionship he shared with the boy. Now, it is an additional slap in the face to the Council and their outdated ideals.

Anakin is bright pink when Ben finally lets him go, his gaze flickering between his Master and the Council as though he can’t quite believe that just happened. It did, as a matter of fact, and Ben tosses a haughty grin over his shoulder to the group of stunned Jedi before steering his still-reeling Apprentice toward the transport and a disgruntled-looking Dooku.

They make it about halfway there before they’re stopped by the pattering of of footsteps and a shouted plea to “Wait!”

They turn to the startled exclamations of the Jedi Council, most of whom are attempting to grapple with the writhing form of a teenage boy, seemingly while touching him as little as possible. It’s an ineffective method, one that ends with the boy breaking loose and jogging the rest of the way across the hanger.

“I want to come with you,” Quinlan Vos says, jaw set with determination.

Ben feels his brows jump halfway to his hairline. Well, this is a surprise.

“Padawan Vos, what do you think you’re doing?” One of the Masters calls. Ben cannot identify which one.

Vos spins on his heel to face the Jedi party. “I’m going with them! I can’t take another day locked up in this temple, and Adelfos is right: if I can’t come back to the Light, then I need to learn control of this power I have now. I will never do that here if you keep me locked up in my room all the time.”

“It’s only until we figure out another way—”

“There is no other way! I’m going with them, and you can’t stop me!”

A new voice breaks through the crowd, Master Tholme stumbling into the hanger and pushing past the Council. He is out of breath likely from chasing his wayward student through the temple, and Ben watches Vos’ eyes glaze over with tears. He’d obviously wanted to be gone before Tholme caught up. “Padawan please, wait just a moment.” The Master calls.

Quinlan shakes his head morosely. “You won’t change my mind, Master.”

“I know,” Tholme replies, a weak smile curling his lips. “You’re horribly stubborn that way. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

Oh, this is even _more_ interesting.

“What?” Quin asks, voice flat with his astonishment.

“I don’t approve of the way the Council has handled you since your fall,” the Master explains, closing the distance between himself and his padawan, “and I can’t stay with an Order who would approve of such treatment. I took an oath when I took you on as my student that I would stand by you through thick or thin. It’s not one I intend to break now.”

Reaching out, Tholme draws his sniffling padawan into his arms, wiping the boy’s disbelieving tears away with the sleeve of his tunic. Ben glances behind them, toward the enraged faces of the Jedi Council and young Obi-Wan’s downright devastated expression, and decides it might be best to take their leave, then.

“Come along,” he says, ushering the pair and his own Apprentice up the ramp “we should be off, before they decide not to let us go.”

He silently mourns the peace of his apartment, growing too small for the rapidly growing Sith Order. Oh well. They’ll figure something out.

* * *

 

Obi-Wan trails his Master back toward their quarters once he’d had a cursory medical examination. The healers game him a clean bill of health, but he feels like he’s falling apart at the seams. Quinlan is gone, his future self is a monster, and Qui-Gon is back to not speaking to him. Anakin was right—the Council did separate them because of how the Master might handle the situation.

He heaves a sigh of relief when the door closes behind them, leaning back against the cool metal, thankful to be away from the prying eyes of the Jedi they passed. As if his situation within the temple wasn’t precarious enough, he’s now been a Sith Lord’s prisoner on top of everything else.

Qui-Gon disappears into his room without a word, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the communal space. It stings that his Master hasn’t spoken to him—hasn’t asked if he’s ok or if he’d like to talk about what happened. And he would. Obi-Wan would very much like to talk about the revelations of the past days, but his Master hadn’t responded when he’d briefly tried to engage him on the way back up to their quarters. It’s been a lot to take in, and it would be a lot easier for the both of them if Qui-Gon would just talk things out with him.

Moving to the kitchen, Obi-Wan begins the ritual of making tea in hopes of lifting his Master’s spirits that way. Tea always helps to soothe Qui-Gon’s nerves; perhaps if the padawan gets a cup or two in him, they’ll be able to have that conversation. However, by the time the scent of Sencha green is wafting through the apartment, by the time he’s poured two steaming mugs and carried them back to the common space, Obi-Wan realizes they aren’t going to be having that talk after all.

Qui-Gon is standing next to the couch, lightsaber in his hand and a duffel bag resting on the cushions. He’s turning the weapon over in his hands, looking at it with the expression of a man who knows he won’t be seeing it again for a long time.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon’s silence makes so much more sense. He sets the mugs down on the coffee table with trembling hands and asks, “Master? What’s going on?” even though he has his suspicions.

“I’m leaving the Order, Obi-Wan,” Jinn announces, looking up from his weapon to meet the padawan’s eyes. There is a steel behind them that Obi-Wan is unfamiliar with; it scares him. “I disagreed with the Council’s agreement to trade Adelfos for you and the initiates. We could have found a way to rescue you without letting a Sith Lord back out into the world; it was a cowardly decision. I can’t, in good conscious, let that man run wild.” He offers his weapon to Obi-Wan. “As his Master, it’s my responsibility to stop him, and I can’t do that here.”

Obi-Wan slaps the hilt of Qui-Gon’s saber away, feeling his eyes prick with tears at the man’s words. Qui-Gon is leaving him. Qui-Gon is abandoning him. “But you’re not _his_ Master! You’re _mine_!”

“Exactly!” Jinn snaps, laying the hilt down on the table next to the slowly-cooling mugs of tea before stepping forward and taking Obi-Wan by the shoulders. “I talked with Tholme, and he made me realize that I have not been a good Master to you, Obi-Wan. I’ve held you back by doubting myself—doubting you. You deserve a Master who can support you unconditionally and help you grow into the man you can become one day.”

“But I don’t _want_ another Master!”

Qui-Gon grimaces and lets go, throwing the bag on the couch over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Obi-Wan.”

He walks out the door before Obi-Wan has the chance to say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw you had a heartfelt conversation with a character a couple chapters ago and took the completely wrong message out of it.


	30. Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you see any weird POV changes in the first section. I changed characters in the rough draft because I didn't like it, and while I think I corrected most of it, there's always a chance I missed something.

“He’s gone,” Obi-Wan Kenobi says when Master Plo Koon finds him, sitting on the steps in front of the temple and looking out over the Coruscant skyline.

He’s turning Master Jinn’s lightsaber over in his hands, the last lingering part of the man that Obi-Wan has left. He’s unsurprised at the Master’s presence—his com unit had been beeping incessantly since he watched the Kel Dor’s transport weave its way through atmo toward the temple. The Council had undoubtedly been summoning him, but he’d elected to ignore it in favor of remaining on his perch on the steps, clinging to a foolish hope that perhaps Qui-Gon would change his mind. Perhaps his Master would get out in the world realize that he’d made the wrong decision. Perhaps he’d come back for Obi-Wan. Plo sits beside him, but does not to say anything yet. There will be time for conversation, but only once Obi-Wan is ready.

“Funny, how we both had to lose him. I know it’s not the same thing, but—” he falters, afraid to give voice to the thoughts swirling in his head, “—but I can’t help but wish that he _were_ dead. Maybe… maybe that way I wouldn’t feel like this.”

“Feel like what, padawan?” Koon asks gently. In only a matter of days, Obi-Wan has had his entire life upended. While the Order does not condone the overly emotional, he suspects that Plo will not reprimand him for anything he might be feeling in this moment.

“Like I wasn’t good enough. Like I was _never_ good enough.”

The Kel Door Master sighs, resting a careful hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. Jedi are not prone to physical comfort, preferring to grieve alone than accept the help of others, but Obi-Wan leans into his hand anyways. “Qui-Gon’s decisions are his own, Obi-Wan, and no reflection upon you. He treads his own path, as you do; if this is where you part ways, then all is as the Force wills it. You will be a powerful Jedi Knight in your own right, someday.”

“But what if I’m not meant to _be_ a Knight!?”

The question hangs in the air, Plo slowly turning to face him, and the words fall unbidden from Obi-Wan’s tongue. “Everyone keeps telling me to meditate on this—on Qui-Gon and Adelfos and Quinlan—but the more I do, the more confused I get.

“I’ve only ever wanted to be a Knight, but I’m beginning to feel like my path leads elsewhere. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to become a padawan. Maybe I was supposed to just go to Bandomeer, and maybe everything that’s happening now is all my fault because—”

“Obi-Wan,” Plo says, interrupting the boy’s rant, “you should not blame yourself for things beyond your control.”

It startles a laugh from Kenobi. “That’s what Vader said, that night at the masquerade. He found out about my being attacked by the other padawan and told me the same thing.”

“Then Lord Vader is far wiser than he appears.”

Obi-Wan draws up his knees, resting his chin on them and wrapping his arms around his legs. The Coruscant sun is setting, the light of its three moons just beginning to bathe the durasteel city in its glow. “What am I supposed to do, Master Koon?” Obi-Wan asks, and sounding as helpless as he feels.

“I cannot give you an answer, padawan,” the Kel Dor sighs. “That is between you and the Force. Should you decide to leave the temple, I will support you in your decision; should you stay, it would be my honor to complete your training, if you would allow me. However, there is someone I’d like you to meet before you make a decision.”

Obi-Wan gives him a look, but the vagueness of his statement has caught the boy’s attention. He’s naturally curious, despite the caution and underlying anxieties that occasionally keep him from acting on such impulses. Here in the temple, however, he knows he’s free to pursue those curiosities safely. Or at least, he used to be.

Still Kenobi follows him through the temple, eyes never leaving the floor as they weave their way back to the halls of healing. Obi-Wan was just dismissed from there a scarce few hours ago, and Plo can undoubtedly read in the line of his shoulders that he really doesn’t want to go back. He rests a hand on the small of Obi-Wan’s back, pressing him along when falters in his pace.

They’ve barely walked through the blast doors of the hall when the padawan finds himself swept up in the arms of Healer Che. He struggles to process this fact, as he and the healer have always had something of an antagonistic relationship. The soft apologies she murmurs as she rubs a soothing hand down his spine and plants a gentle kiss to the crown of his head bring tears to his eyes that he hurries to scrub away. The aging Twi’lek has a reputation for her cantankerous attitude, but she chose the path of a Healer for a reason. To see her fellow Jedi suffering brings her pain, and she would prefer to do what she can to help. “If you need anything,” she tells him, “my doors are always open.”

“Thank you, Healer Che,” Obi-Wan chokes out, pulling himself from her embrace. His head is swimming with something he can’t identify, and there’s an itch below his skin that only seems to grow in intensity the longer they linger.

“We’re here to see the boy, if we may,” Koon informs her, and Vokara gives them both a once-over before deciding to cede to the Master’s request.

She gestures to a door down the hall. “He’s just in there, Master Koon. Please do take care; he’s still a bit nervous.”

“Of course, Vokara. Thank you.”

Plo returns his hand to Obi-Wan’s back, guiding him down the hall and toward the door that Che pointed out. The closer they get, the worse that itch becomes. He feels restless, anxious, anticipatory. While he has no idea what could be on the other side of that door, a small part of him knows that it will change his life in way he can only begin to imagine.

The blast doors roll open, and the pair step into a small patient’s room. It’s been mostly cleared of medical equipment, a small mat rolled out on the floor to cover the cold tile. On it kneels a boy, no more than a few years old, with sandy blonde hair and striking blue eyes. On the outside, there is nothing particularly remarkable about him, but in the Force, he is a star gone supernova.

It’s a moment before he notices them, caught up as he is in the small model ships he’s piling into the arms of the room’s other occupant: a woman with the same eyes and hair just a shade darker. They both look over at the pair of Jedi with curiosity.

“Obi-Wan,” Plo says softly, “I’d like you to meet Shmi Skywalker, and her son, Anakin.”

* * *

 

“Dude, nice place!” Quin crows, wide-eyed, following Ben into the apartment. Tholme and Dooku trail in after, not as vocally appreciative of the space as the youngest member of their party.

“The man who owned it before me paid a great deal for it.” The Sith Master sighs when the padawan throws his grimy bag down on Ben’s couch. “However, don’t bother getting comfortable, we’ll only be staying long enough for Anakin to secure us a new ship. Then, we will be on our way.”

“What? Why?” The padawan asks, slumping on the couch next to his bag and propping his boots on the coffee table. The emotional pain it causes Ben is enough to confirm that Sidious had been quite unhappy with Ben himself doing it earlier. “This place is great!”

“Quinlan, boots off the table,” Tholme chides, sitting down in the remaining armchair. Ben flashes him a grateful look as Vos sheepishly removes his boots from the table. No one asks what happened to the apartment’s previous occupant, likely more because they don’t want to know than any lack of curiosity.

Ben strips his borrowed cloak off, throwing it over the back of the couch rather than hanging it, as he’d usually do. It’s not like they’ll be coming back here, anyways. “While I can shield myself and Anakin’s presence from the Jedi due to our training bond, I cannot say the same for the rest of you. Without the proper training, which takes more time than we have as the Jedi and Dooku’s former Master have undoubtedly already begun looking for us, you’ll be discovered in no time at all.”

“What makes you think Sidious will be looking for us?” Dooku asks, striding across the room to stand at Tholme’s shoulder. He’s been suspiciously quiet through the course of their relocation, eyeing Ben with a wariness that hadn’t been present during their encounter on Alderaan. Anakin must have let something slip during their time together. This, too, is another matter that can wait until they’ve found more secure lodgings.

“I… may have sneaked out of the temple and confronted him in his office.” Ben confesses.

Dooku’s eyes bulge from his head in a way that shouldn’t be nearly as amusing as it is considering their recent partnership. Must be the lingering Clone Wars General in him. “You _what_!?”

“I spoke with your Master. I assume he is by now aware that he’s lost your loyalty, and will be seeking out a new Apprentice. Especially considering he threatened to poach mine.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?”

“Of course not.” Ben scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “As I told your former Master, Anakin wouldn’t stray.”

“He’s strayed before. He told me so himself.”

“Yes, but that was before. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to make use of the ‘fresher before we pack up. Lord knows the Jedi weren’t kind enough to allow me a chance. There’s another in the second bedroom; you’re welcome to the clothing in the closet when you’re done, if they fit. Might be a bit less conspicuous than your robes.”

Slipping into the bedroom, Ben peels off his borrowed tunics on his way into the fresher, leaving a trail of tan fabric behind him. He pauses briefly to look himself over in the mirror, prodding carefully at the stitches in his side that have miraculously held despite the abuse he’s put them through in the last twenty-four hours. They’ll probably need to come out soon, what with a Force user’s naturally accelerated healing. If worse comes to worse, it’s nothing a healing session with Anakin can’t fix. The younger man is becoming quite adept in the art of healing.

He steps into the spray, allowing his muscles to unwind for what feels like the first time in days. The presences of the other members of the fledgling Sith Order burn brightly in the apartment, but there’s something comforting about feeling them brush against his own senses. Having grown up in the Jedi Order, surrounded by his crèchemates and the other occupants of the temple, he’s accustomed to having others nearby. Even during the Clone Wars, when he’d spent extensive time away, he’d been surrounded by the presences of his men. He’d thought that having others nearby would distract him from his goal of destroying Sidious; instead, it seems to be helping him keep focused.

There is a lot to be done before the members of this new Sith Order are prepared to take on Sidious and whomever he takes as his new apprentice. Dooku and Quinlan will need training, and Tholme has yet to even fall. Then there’s Anakin and himself, who have not had to cooperate extensively with other Force users since… their Bonding, really. The Council’s attempts to pair them with other Knights over the years had often ended in disaster, leading to Anakin and Ben being partnered together almost all the time. It will take work for them to become accustomed to working in cooperation with others again; just adding a single padawan to the mix had been a trial and a half during the early days of the Wars.

Ben is so caught up in his thoughts that he does not hear the ‘fresher door slide open, only becoming aware that he is not alone when he feels a pair of strong arms wrap around him, pulling him back against a solid chest.

“Hello, Master,” Anakin croons in his ear, wet hair tickling Ben’s shoulders and the back of his neck.

He turns in his student’s arms smiling up at the boy and reaching out to wrap his arms around Anakin’s neck. Anakin’s right eye is a bit swollen from the swing Ben took at him earlier; they’ll have to heal it when they’re done in the shower. “Hello, my dear Apprentice.”

The younger man leans down, burying his face in the hollow of Ben’s throat. “I missed you,” he mumbles into skin.

“I missed you, too.” Ben replies, coaxing his fingers through the tangles of Anakin’s curls. They stick to his fingers in their current, soaked state. “The Jedi tried to tell me you were dead.”

Anakin’s head snaps up, an alarmed look on his face. “They did _what_? Did you believe them?”

“Of course not. I would know if you’d been killed. But I confess it was… still a terrifying thought.”

“I’m not dead,” the Apprentice says, leaning closer to catch his Master’s face in his hands. “Master, I’m not dead.”

Anakin kisses him then, the warm spray from the shower falling over them. It seems to all come crashing down then: how close he actually came to losing Anakin; how terrified he’d been of being alone in this time and place; how relieved he is to see his Apprentice alive and breathing and whole. Ben’s hands tighten in Anakin’s hair, pressing himself against the younger man and backing him up until Anakin’s back hits the wall of the shower. He groans softly, making ben aware of an injury before unseen, but the boy is already half hard. Such is the libido of some young men.

He gasps when Ben slips a thigh between his legs—a beautiful sound that only one other person in the history of the galaxy has ever been privy to. Padme Amidala had undoubtedly heard these noises, but here in this moment, they belong to Ben. He had shared the boy once, delivered him safely to the arms of his lover at the end of each and every campaign; he is not sharing him now.

For a long moment there is nothing more than the slide of skin, rocking into each other with a laziness that contrasts their current situation. They’re fugitives hunted by both Jedi and Sith, the members of their new Order waiting just beyond the ‘fresher walls for their guidance, but in the moment they feel as though there is all the time in the world.

Ben sinks to his knees, heedless of the way the tile of the ‘fresher bites at his weary joints, and coaxes Anakin to fullness with just a few strokes of his hands. A smirk twitches his lips as he watches the boy writhe at the contact, beautifully responsive to Ben’s ministrations. He could make Anakin beg—has done so in the past—but for now he thinks he’ll just take pity on him.

He takes the man’s cock into his mouth with relative ease. He’d been much more proficient at the art of oral sex in his youth, but he’s been relearning the skill since becoming involved with Anakin in this new life. The tang of the younger man’s taste on his tongue is familiar and grounding; something he had imagined countless times but had never compared in the face of the real thing. The boy mutters curses as Ben bobs around him, scrabbling uselessly as the slick, wet tile of the ‘fresher wall. He knows better than to try and grab hold of Ben; he’s been reprimanded for it in the past.

“M-Master—” He whines when Ben pulls away, back him off from the edge.

“One moment, Anakin,” he replies, stepping out from under the spray and rustling around in the cabinets in search of his prize. He returns with a bottle of lube in hand, gesturing for Anakin to turn. The younger man does, bracing himself against the wall in preparation for what is to come.

Ben is given pause, however, when he notices the myriad of burns that cover his back. They wind up his spine and cover his shoulders, marring the already scarred flesh further. While they appear to have been healed enough to make moving bearable, they will still require at least one healing session before they’re no longer painful. Trailing his fingers gently down Anakin’s spine, he watches the muscle beneath twitch under the interplay of his touch and the ‘fresher’s warm spray.

“Is this from the explosion?” He asks, receiving and answering nod from the younger man. “Anakin, I don’t know if we should—”

“It’s fine, Ben,” Anakin protests, glancing over his shoulder to meet his Master’s eyes. “It’s fine. Please just—please. I need this.”

“Alright,” Ben cedes, slicking up his fingers, “we’ll be careful. Do not be afraid to tell me if you wish to stop.”

The first time they’d done this hadn’t been a particularly exciting affair. In fact, it was rather awkward and uncomfortable for the both of them. Anakin, having never been taken by a man before, had taken a great deal of time adjusting to the intrusion and Ben, quite concerned about inadvertently injuring his beloved Apprentice, had dragged the process out far longer than was strictly necessary. It’s much easier now, with more experience under their belt. Anakin takes one finger easily, and another soon after. The third is still a stretch, Ben murmuring encouragement as he works to stretch the younger man open, stroking soothingly along his ribs with his spare hand.

And then he’s sliding home, a silent gasp on his lips and his Apprentice keening at the sensation of being filled. It doesn’t matter how many times they do this; there is always a part of Ben that has to pause in his disbelief that it’s really happening. After everything that happened, after everyone he failed, how did he come to deserve this? To be seated inside of the man he swore his life to over thirty years ago?

“Please,” Anakin hisses, pressing back against him, and Ben obliges.

Their pace is slow, unhurried, as they’ve been unhurried in everything else. They _should_ hurry, but Ben can’t make himself do it. Not when Anakin is here, safe in his arms, warm and tight around his cock. Anakin moans his name, interspersed with soft pleas of _Master_ and _harder,_ and it is the most beautiful sound that he’s ever heard.

The words fall from his lips before he can stop them. For all the time they’ve spent together, he hasn’t said them. Hasn’t said them since that faithful day on Mustafar, when he’d shared that shameful confession before leaving this man to burn. “I love you,” he gasps, and suddenly can’t seem to stop saying it. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Anakin chokes on a sob in answer, their Bond a feedback loop of pleasure as they drive each other to completion. The younger man finally comes when Ben reaches down, wrapping a hand around his cock and still whispering those once-forbidden words in his ear. The Master follows shortly after, spilling inside him, barely catching himself on the wall of the ‘fresher before he slumps against Anakin’s injured back.

For a moment there is only the sound of their panting, both trying to catch their breath. Ben places sloppy kisses along Anakin’s shoulders, knees trembling with the effort it takes just to remain standing in the wake of orgasm. The only thing that forces him to move is his own oversensitivity, pulling out of Anakin with a wince when he can take the discomfort no longer.

The water is still warm despite the time they’ve taken and the use of the second ‘fresher—a perk of living among Coruscant’s upper crust—but they clean themselves off quickly. They’ve dawdled enough, and there are things to be done before they take their fledgling Order in search of a new base. Not a word is said about Ben’s confession. Not until they’re dressed and slightly more composed.

Anakin turns suddenly on their way out the door, blocking Ben’s path out to the rest of the apartment. “I love you, too.” He says, then resumes his exit as abruptly as he’d stopped it. Ben sighs, a fond smile on his lips, and follows after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic got some art this week!  
> Inheavenlygrass drew the [ CH 29 Kiss ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/156145621612) and the [ CH 18 Cockpit Scene ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/156466745967)
> 
> The-obi-wan-for-you also drew the [ CH 29 Kiss ](http://the-obi-wan-for-you.tumblr.com/post/156311381617)
> 
> Thank you both for your wonderful art! You're both fabulous, and it brightened my day to see what you made :)


	31. Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all, I didn't mean to leave you hanging for a month. Got caught up in some other fics.

Obi-Wan can’t remembered the last time he really laughed; not the awkward chuckle he’d force when a politician would make an un-funny joke, but real, delighted laughter that warms his face and spills tears down his cheeks. There’s been little to laugh about in recent months, from the emergence of the Sith to the hostility of his Jedi brethren to the unexpected departure of Qui-Gon Jinn. It felt like the world was weighing down on him, threatening to crush him under the pressure and lifted only here and now, when he can’t seem to catch his breath from the force of his cheer.

On the floor before him, the young Anakin Skywalker screeches with protests, flailing in attempt to wiggle out of Obi-Wan’s grip. The padawan, however, is relentless in his attack, squeezing at the boy’s sides and tickling him until Skywalker lands a lucky kick. He knocks one of Obi-Wan’s hands away, giving him enough time to scramble to his feet and take off across the room, giggling in the carefree way of young children. Pausing briefly, Obi-Wan allows the boy to put a bit more distance between them before giving chase.

At first, he hadn’t known what to do with the boy. In fact, he’d thought Master Koon might have gone out of his mind when he, Master Che, and Shmi left the room to discuss the potential future Shmi and her son might have with the Order. Despite having been a toddler once himself, he’d been entirely unsure how to ‘keep the boy entertained’ as Plo had requested and the first few minutes had passed in awkward silence. Skywalker waved his model fighters through the air with pudgy fists, and Obi-Wan simply stared, trying desperately to ignore the contented hum in the Force that came with proximity to the boy’s bright Force signature. Considering his elder self’s behavior in the hanger earlier and Vader’s clear dependence on the man, it seemed foolish to even allow contact between himself and the Anakin Skywalker of this time.

Eventually, however, he’d tried interacting with the child. Levitating one of the ships from Skywalker’s hands had caught the boy’s attention, drawing a surprised gasp from him as he watched the model freighter fly slow circles around his head. It was no surprise when Anakin easily caught on, his inherent strength with the Force allowing him to copy the padawan’s behavior and levitate another model into the air. Skywalker’s control is shaky—remaining level in its pursuit of Obi-Wan’s ship for only brief periods before dipping dangerously and forcing the child to refocus—but still quite impressive for a boy who likely doesn’t even know the barest of details about the power he wields.

From there, the tension in the room had quickly faded and left Obi-Wan where he is now, pursuing the boy from his examination room and out into the Halls of Healing at large. “Come back here, Ani!” he calls, ribs aching from laughing so hard.

“No!” Skywalker shrieks, tearing down the hallway as fast as his small legs will carry him. Obi-Wan follows at a jog, turning the corner Anakin disappeared around in time to watch the boy vanish into what he knows to be Vokara’s office. Worry that he might have accidently interrupted the adults’ meeting causes him to pick up the pace, and he and follows Anakin into the office.

Fortunately, no one seems particularly unhappy about their arrival. Master Che is seated at her desk, Plo and Shmi in chairs on the opposite side and Mace Windu standing between them. Obi-Wan hadn’t expected the man’s presence, as he hadn’t been there earlier; he must have arrived while Obi-Wan was entertaining Anakin in the exam room. They glance over at the pair as they enter, warm smiles on Vokara’s and Shmi’s face at Anakin’s clear excitement. Plo’s body language is relaxed, and even though there’s a wrinkle between Mace’s brows, it’s not nearly pronounced enough to indicate more than mild discomfort at the situation. Considering most of the Order had been either openly hostile or avoiding him like a plague before he and Qui-Gon were confined to quarters, he considers mild discomfort a step in the right direction.

Ani clambers up into his mother’s lap, immediately launching into an excited retelling of just what he and Obi-Wan have gotten up to during their meeting, and the padawan hovers in the doorway, unsure of what to do now. He could go and stand by Plo’s side, or he could step to the back of the room and wait for their meeting to conclude, or he could try and slip back out the door and return to his quarters until he’s summoned. However, the thought of being alone in the space that had once been his and Qui-Gon’s, now devoid of anything to suggest that the elder man had even been there, makes his stomach turn.

“Ah, Obi-Wan,” Plo says, sparing him the decision, “we were just finishing up. Why don’t you come in?”

He sighs in relief, stepping over to the man’s side and waiting for further instruction. Mace is the one to speak next. “Master Koon has informed us that you’re considering leaving the Order, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan startles, glancing at Koon with an expression of betrayal. He’d confided in the Master in belief that the Kel Dor would keep the secret to himself until Obi-Wan had made a decision on the matter. Apparently, he’d been wrong, and the Master had felt the need to share his emotional turmoil with a room full of others. Biting down on the sharp retort that it’s _none of Mace’s business_ , he forces himself to shrug noncommittally. While he doesn’t want to share his struggle with Mace Windu of all people, he can’t outright lie to a Jedi Councilor.

“It’s understandable to feel some doubt after everything that’s happened,” the man says next, throwing Obi-Wan even further off balance. “You’ve had to go through a lot these past few weeks; more than any other padawan your age. Doubt is perfectly natural, considering the situation. However, before you make a decision, we’d like to ask something of you.”

Here, Plo picks up the conversation. “Miss Skywalker will be remaining with the Order to serve in the Corps while young Anakin will be joining his agemates in the crèche. However, she’s is quite unfamiliar with the Jedi way, and in need of someone to teach her the basics of our lifestyle and of Force use. We would like to offer you the opportunity to be that teacher, should you decide to remain among our number.”

Of all the things that Koon could have said, this is something Obi-Wan would never have expected. For one, he hadn’t even realized that Anakin’s mother was Force-sensitive, hidden as her signature was by her son’s overwhelming presence. When he really focuses, however, he can feel the shimmer of her Light, weaker than her sons but very much there. Secondly, Shmi is far beyond the age that Jedi usually accept new members. To have an adult brought into the fold is practically unheard of, even if she is intending to go into the Corps. “I’m sorry, but wouldn’t a Master be more suited to the task?” he finds himself asking, glancing over at Shmi. She doesn’t look particularly offended by his question, which could be construed as a rejection.

“In another situation, perhaps,” Windu interjects. “However, coming into the Order at her age, we believe it may be best for her to train with someone who may understand better than a Master. You, Obi-Wan, understand the struggle of emotionalism better than most. If anyone can aid Miss Skywalker in learning to balance emotion with the Jedi Code, it would be you.”

Obi-Wan drops his gaze from Shmi’s reassuring smile to the floor, unsure. What they say makes sense, but he still isn’t even sure he’s going to stay with the Order. This offer feels a bit like a trap, like a way to keep him nearby and easy to watch, but at the same time he recognizes the opportunity it presents. Accepting the offer to teach could be a way to move forward and a way to ground himself back in the beliefs that were shaken with the events of the past few months. Perhaps by teaching another, he can learn more about himself. “Do I have to make a decision now? Or can I think about it?”

“You’ve got time,” Vokara answers. “Both Miss Skywalker and her son will be remaining in the Halls for a few days while we collect their medical information and get them caught up on vaccines they’re missing. There’s no rush.”

“Then than you, Masters, for the offer,” Obi-Wan says with a bow. “I would like to meditate on the matter before making a decision.”

With that, the meeting seems to adjourn. Everyone seated gets to their feet and they pile out of Vokara’s office, breaking off in different directions as they walk. The Twi’Lek healer guides the Skywalkers into a temporary room, Mace heads off in the direction of the Council Chamber, and Obi-Wan finds himself falling into step with Plo as they make their way toward the residential sector. Again that fear of being alone rises up in his chest, and he isn’t looking forward to spending the night with nothing but Qui-Gon’s absence.

“Would you like some help collecting your things?” Plo asks as they near Obi-Wan’s quarters, dragging the padawan from his thoughts.

“Am I moving?”

“I put in a request for a change of quarters before I found you,” Koon confesses. While his vocoder doesn’t allow for much inflection in his tone, there is a tenseness to the Master’s shoulders and a flicker in his Force signature that Obi-Wan can only interpret as nervousness. “I thought that a change of scenery might serve you well. There is another joint apartment available a few floors above us, should you wish to join me there. I won’t be offended if you wish for your own space, however.”

Obi-Wn finds himself scowling at the floor as they walk, considering the offer. He honestly hadn’t expected the other Master to have considered his comfort, though it seems a bit foolish now; Plo Koon has always been known for his compassion. While he wants to get away from the silence of his and Qui-Gon’s apartment, a part of him is protesting the idea. A part of him is still clinging irrationally to the hope that his old Master may return and take his place at Obi-Wan’s side once more. The man’s lightsaber bumps against the padawan’s leg with each step he takes. He should have turned it over to the Council already, but had found that he could not.

“I would appreciate the help, Master Koon,” he says when they pause outside the door to his old quarters. As much as he would like Qui-Gon to return, he has to accept that the man will not be coming back. He has to move forward with his life, and Plo was right in assuming that a change of location would help. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Anakin doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of nature: of dirt between his toes and a cool breeze in his lungs. His boots and his outer tunic lay discarded on the _Twilight 2._ 0’s lowered ramp, shucked off as he’d emerged from the vessel upon touching down at their current destination. The Sith Apprentice flops unceremoniously to the earth, basking in the soft sunlight and the long, flowing grasses of the plains that tickle the exposed skin of his arms. Yeah, he’s never getting used to this.

When Ben had instructed him to set course for Naboo, Anakin had originally been quite apprehensive. Choose Sidious’ home planet as a place to hide from him had seemed like a foolish decision and, in his defense, he’s got enough with history with this planet to give even a well-adjusted version of himself a headache. Still, when they’d actually landed, he’d found himself helplessly drawn to the thrum of life outside the ship. The Force pulses with it; the grasses, the insects, the herd of wild Shaak just over the horizon. Admittedly, it’s a pleasant change of pace from the barren city life of Coruscant or the sickly Darkness of Dathomir.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so excited about some dirt,” a voice teases, its owner stepping into his sunlight and interrupting Anakin’s luxuriating. He pries his eyes open, glowering up into the yellow of Quinlan Vos’, which seem to glow like embers in his amusement. The former padawan has left his own boots in the ship, though he hasn’t yet abandoned his shirt due to the breeze. Not everyone is as enthusiastic about Naboo’s mild climate as Anakin, who would happily have stripped off his undertunic as well if not for the scars that mar his skin. “It’s just some grass, dude.”

“I was raised on a desert planet,” Anakin haughtily informs him, rolling over to mumble his next words into the aforementioned plants. “It’s never _just_ grass.”

“Man, you must have been a massive karking pain growing up.” Anakin shrugs, allowing his eyes to slip closed again until Quinlan digs his toes into his ribcage. “Hey, will you spar with me?”

The boy is, when Anakin looks up at him again, earnest in his proposition. Practically vibrating, actually, with his excitement at the prospect. From what he’s been told, Quin spent the last few weeks locked up in his quarters like some shameful secret while the Council tried to figure out what to do with him. It’s no wonder he’s looking to stretch his legs, now that he’s finally got the opportunity. “Why don’t you spar with your Master?”

“We’ve only got one lightsaber between us,” Quin huffs. “The Council confiscated mine when I fell. Besides, I want to see how I stack up against a real Sith Apprentice.”

“Dooku’s a Sith Apprentice, too, you know.”

Quinlan’s answering snort is enough to convey his opinion on that. Anakin can’t say he blames him; despite his recent coming-to-terms with the man, he’s still Anakin’s great-grandmaster. Not exactly the kind of person you go to for a casual spar. Barring Ben, who Anakin knows still makes their new arrivals nervous, there isn’t really anyone else the boy can go it.

“Alright,” he cedes, hauling himself to his feet while Quinlan lets out an excited _whoop_ , darting back toward the ship to fetch Tholme’s lightsaber.

He must have shared the news of their session, because the rest of their little Order follows him out of the ship. Ben and Dooku are dressed in their usual layers despite the nice weather, the regality they exude almost humorous in contrast to the vast emptiness of the plains. Tholme, at least is a little more casual, having stripped off his own boots to match his student.

They put the ship down far enough away from the nearest town that there’s little chance of being caught. Out here, it’s just them and beasts that roam among the rolling grasses. They’ll spot any potential dangers klicks away, and unwind knowing that here, in the one place in the galaxy they know their enemies are not, they are safe.

Lightsabers spring to life as Anakin and Quin take their ready positions, the others settling down in the grass nearby to spectate. Tholme’s saber is a soft green, like Anakin knows Quin’s had been during the Clone Wars. His own white blade draws the younger man’s eyes, the unusual color—or lack thereof—no doubt surprising him.

 _Careful_ drifts across his Bond to Ben when Tholme calls a start to the match and their blades meet for the first time, reminding him of the situation. As a veteran of two different galactic conflicts, Anakin’s skills far surpass those of the former padawan on a good day. Considering that the boy is weeks out of practice and using a ‘saber he doesn’t have a connection with, this is not a good day. Sending back an acknowledgement of his Master’s warning, Anakin dials himself back from his aggressive Shien and falls into the defensive form of Soresu. While he isn’t exceptionally skilled on the defensive, this is more a chance to stretch their legs than a real, competitive spar. There’s no harm in letting Vos have the attack.

They keep things slow, Ben and Tholme calling out corrections to their form as they go. Anakin gets more of them due to his inexperience with his Master’s preferred form, but both students are sweating by the time they break apart. Quin bows to him, a formal gesture that catches Anakin off guard, and his own bow in return is a bit awkward. It hadn’t really been upheld along his lineage, the custom feeling a bit too much like subservience for his history as a slave. Ben and Ahsoka had respected this, saving the gesture only for the most important of times.

 “You’re really good!” Quin crows, following him over to where the other three men are seated.

“I should hope so,” he replies, chuckling as he drops down into the grass at Ben’s side. “I’ve held a great many military titles throughout my life.”

Anakin curls into Ben’s side, eyes slipping closed when his Master reaches over, carding fingers through his sweaty hair. A small part of him is aware, distantly, that Padme is somewhere on this planet. She’s what? Seven, now? Eight? Still so young. His beloved wife.

The thought of her sends a pang through his chest. He’d grieved her loss, accepted it, but he hadn’t let himself think on the loss of his children since his arrival in this time. Luke and Leia… would they even come to be in this universe? They’ve changed so much, but Anakin finds it difficult to picture a world without them. It will depend entirely on the will of the Force, he supposes.

“The course of your life?” Quin scoffs. “You’re like what, twenty? How many titles could you have possible held?”

“I’m almost forty-five years old, you brat.” Anakin snaps, temper flaring. “I was a General in the Grand Army of the Republic, Admiral of the Galactic Empire’s Death Squadron. You should show a little respect.” The thoughts of his wife have soured his mood, and he receives a sharp reprimand through the Bond for his behavior.

“F-forty-five?” Vos chokes, apparently unfazed by Anakin’s lapse of control. “How old is your Master?”

“Old enough,” Ben sighs. It comes to no surprise that he hadn’t let Anakin answer; he wouldn’t be quite as scary if the others knew he was actually pushing sixty, and Ben can be quite vain at times.

Sinking into the Force, Anakin allows himself to feel out the reactions of the other two men with them. Tholme and Dooku seem less surprised than Quin had been, but they also know the truth of their identities and origins. There’s curiosity, too, about their history. Dooku had received a short summary of the events in their previous lives, but Master nor Apprentice has really sat down and explain just what happened to craft the men into what they are today. That is a conversation for another time and place, however; not when they’re enjoying a day of bonding and relaxing under the sun.

“I know,” Anakin announces with an impish grin, pulling away from his Master and meeting the man’s gaze. “How about we show these youngsters how a couple of Clone Wars Generals do things, Master?”

There are no complaints about the rather abrupt subject change, the rest of their Order too intrigued by the prospect of watching Master and Apprentice spar. Ben smirks, allowing Anakin to pull him to his feet after the younger man jumps up. “I was unaware you desired public humiliation so much, my dear Apprentice.”

They stroll side by side across the field until they reach a safe distance from the rest of the group, aware that their sparring can sometimes get a bit wild. It had been a constant source of complaints through their years as Jedi, to the point that they were restricted to private training rooms only; too many innocent bystanders had been caught in the crossfire of their matches in the public halls. Once they’ve selected a suitable strip of the field, they separate, pacing a distance from each other and falling into their opening stances.

There’s no need for anyone to call a start to the match, the Force Bond between them alerting the other to the each’s intention to move. The strength of their Bond is what makes their matches so aggressive, allowing them to predict and counter their partner’s moves even before they’ve begun. Anakin feels breathless as their blades clash, white on white, the twin kyber crystals within their hilts humming in synchrony. An all-out spar is something they haven’t had since they first met back up in this time, often held back due to consideration for their setting. Ben’s apartment or the belly of a ship are not an appropriate place for a no-holds-barred spar, but out here in the field, only them and their Order, it’s safe to let go.

 As per the usual of their more intense sessions, Force-work and physical fighting is just as prevalent as lightsaber combat. What Ben lacks in strength, he makes up for in skill and speed. He’s experienced, crafty, and can pull the Force right out from under Anakin if the Apprentice doesn’t keep his shields up due to the structure of their Bond. It’s been done on Ilum, when he’d first found out Ben was alive, and he doesn’t doubt that the Master would do it again if only for the entertainment value of thoroughly humiliating his Apprentice in front of their fledgling Order. Anakin ducks a strike, parries another, and sees an opening. It’s not a particularly safe opening, but he’s going to risk it if it can give him the chance to come out of this on top.

He lunges for Ben, heedless to the man’s outstretched blade, and trusts his Master not to skewer him. Sure enough, the weapon is disengaged and cast aside almost as soon as the younger man makes his move, and Anakin crashes headlong into Ben with enough force to send the man clean off his feet. They tumble, head over heels, before final coming to rest in the grass with Anakin atop Ben’s chest, forearm braced across the Master’s throat.

“I win,” he crows, holding the position a moment before jumping up off the other man.

In hindsight, he should have been more suspicious of the man’s silence on the matter, because as soon as he reaches down to offer Ben a hand up, the Master grabs him and flips him. He hits the dirt with a hard _thud_ , the impact driving air from his lungs, and he lay gasping as Ben gets to his feet and dusts himself off.

“Maybe next time, my Apprentice,” the man smirks, calling his saber to his hand and hooking it back to his belt. “Maybe next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan's moving forward, and some bonding time for our Sith boys. They deserved some fluff before the action picks back up again.
> 
> Here's an [ Padawan Obi & Baby Ani ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/157374738797/so-i-went-a-completely-different-direction-with) by inheavenlygrass! Look at those cuties!


	32. Thity-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter while I get back in the swing of things.

There are nights when Calamitous dreams of white armor—dreams of men who live and die and live again in rows upon rows of identical masks. A million men, different in body but alike in mind, charging blindly into battle for the sake of freedoms they never truly had against enemies they never truly understood. To their commanders, they are nothing more than cannon fodder; cogs and gears of the war machine their world is built upon. They obey without question, blindly following men who seek only to serve their own interests. Perfect rows of perfect soldiers who spurn identity in favor of uniformity. They are no one; they are everyone. A galaxy of black and white.

There are nights when Calamitous dreams of Rebellion: of beings in orange flight suits and tan winter gear and olive green uniforms. They leave a trail of color wherever they go; smeared on the walls and their ships and their amour, they bring vibrant life to a cold galaxy. At their head is a woman, barely more than a girl, with dark eyes and dark hair and an expression that suggests she bears the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders. She is small but strong; fragile yet fierce. She is princess to the lost and traitor to those who believe themselves found. To her right is a boy with a heart made of Light, pure and unblemished for all the scars on his skin. Blonde hair and blue eyes and an effortless smile that hides the extent of the suffering he feels. A lightsaber, old and new again, alight in his palm with the glow of something that like hope. To her left is a ruffian, shaggy-haired and wild-eyed, a blaster in his hand and a Wookie at his back. Fearless, reckless, to hide the terror he feels at losing the world he's only just begun to build. A family, neither unwanted nor unwelcome despite the protests that fall from his lips. Everything to a man who has always had nothing.

There are nights when Calamitous dreams of a shadow, ever-present yet unseen. It lurks in the corner of his eye, gone by the time he turns about. He can always hear its rasping, hissing breath; can always feel the chill of its presence. Its Darkness is choking, suffocating. The aching, empty loneliness of the living dead.

 _Look_ , the Force asks, begs, demands. _Listen_.

But Calamitous does not, cannot, will not see. He screws his eyes shut and holds hands over his ears and loses himself in the pain-rage-dismay of the Dark until they chase the dreams from his mind once more.

His Master had promised the nightmares would stop. His Master had promised the power to chase them away. He feels it when he reaches, fueled by the very dreams it was meant to erase. Power he has in abundance, yet still the visions dance behind his eyes and whisper in his ears to please, please, please look.

There are nights when Calamitous wakes clawing at his own mask, desperate to be free of its suffocating confines—desperate to separate himself from the nameless, faceless men and the boy with his smile and the girl and her ruffian and the great black shadow that haunts their every move.

Casting the mask across the room, it _cracks_ against the hull of the ship with satisfying intensity. The plastisteel amour it’s made from won’t suffer much from the impact, which is both fortunate and not. On nights like these, he’d like to shatter the thing and erase all reminders of the world in his dreams. On the other hand, it is for the better that the mask remains whole and unharmed. Anonymity, his Master claims, is paramount to their success. To be known would create vulnerability. It would make him easy to easy to track, easy to predict. Easy to kill.

And Calamitous does not doubt that, should his identity be discovered, he would be brought down swiftly and without mercy.

This is, after all, the way of the Sith. They seek power, control—the ability to build a world that suits their purposes, the wants and needs of its people be damned. For the Sith, the only right way is their way, and Calamitous does not fit within the future the new Sith Order envisions. If he’s going to stay alive, if he’s going to bring about the future that he and his own Master envision, he needs to strike first. He needs to bring this new Sith Order to its knees.

This, too, is the way of the Sith.

Heaving himself from the cot in the crew quarters of his ship, Calamitous collects his fallen mask before heading to the cockpit and check the course. Outside the viewport, hyperspace streaks by. The navicomputer informs him that they’re still on course, and should be reaching their destination in the next few hours should nothing unexpected come up.

It is tempting to go back to sleep, to try and catch a few hours of rest without the torment of his dreams, but Calamitous settles into the pilot’s chair instead. He needs to decide on a plan for when he reaches Naboo, anyhow.

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Tholme huffs, breaking out of his meditative position and flopping back onto the carpet of their motel room. His frustration is thick in the Force, which Ben would ordinarily think might have helped their current situation. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case. The pressure builds, yes, but when it gets to the point where Tholme might be able to use that emotion to summon the power of the Dark Side, his frustration vents into the Force like a steam pipe releasing pressure. And here the Council preaches to anyone who will listen how easily the Dark Side can corrupt even the most devoted of Jedi. “I was unaware this would be so hard.”

The Sith Master sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and slipping out of his own meditative position. They’ve been on Naboo a week now, having relocated to the city of Theed in the meantime. It had been decided that they’d wait for Tholme to fall before moving forward with their plan to dethrone Sidious, which has proven to be something more easily said than done. It’s not his fault; the man was a gifted and dedicated Jedi Master, and the fact of the matter is, he doesn’t have the same stake in the Dark that the rest of their budding Order have. Ben and Anakin seek the power to bring Sidous to his knees; Dooku wishes to protect his lineage and the Order they support; Quinlan wants control over his life and his choices after having this power thrust upon him. Tholme is here because Quin is, not because he’s really interested in what the Dark Side can offer him.

“Perhaps we should take a break for today,” Ben suggests. “Try to clear our heads.”

“I think Tholme’s head is clear enough for all of us combined,” Quin snickers, and Ben hears the slap of skin when the fallen padawan high-fives Anakin. Insolent, the both of them; he’s beginning to think he took their mutual distaste for each other in their past lives for granted.

“Perhaps we’ll get into a fight while we’re out, then, to mix things up a bit. Will you be joining us this time, Anakin?”

Despite the fact that they’ve been in Theed almost a full week, Anakin has yet to leave the suite.  While Ben can’t entirely blame the boy—this city is crawling with more reminders of their past than most—his avoidance of the issue is starting to become unhealthy. He’s not the only one with a history here, after all. If Ben has to go out every day and face those scars, Anakin should be doing it as well.

He doesn’t, instead staying in the suite and tinkering with the hotel’s various droids. They’ve begun to visit him instead of their mechanic for repairs, and the Apprentice has taken to fixing them with gusto. Sinking into moving meditation while he does, he releases his anxiety over their stay in this city of ghosts into the Force in the tradition of Jedi rather than facing them. Ben will drag him from the suite eventually, will force him to deal with those emotions he’s ignoring, but for now his focus is on getting Tholme to fall. Anakin’s emotions will keep, but they’ve already overstayed their welcome here. They need to be moving on, or risk discovery by their opponents.

“No,” the Apprentice replies, sitting cross-legged on the bed and tinkering with some kind of small droid. It’s in pieces across the comforter, smearing grease into the fabric that the hotel is certainly going to charge them extra to get out… again.

With Anakin’s expected decline received, Dooku, Quin, and Tholme follow Ben out of the hotel and into the city, weaving their way through the busy streets. It seems like every being of Theed is out and about, and it’s easy to lose themselves in the crowd. They follow the flow of foot traffic, not headed anywhere in particular, Quin at Ben’s side with Dooku and Tholme behind. Quinlan has a hundred questions about the city, its people, its history.

This isn’t altogether surprising; he’d been a very successful Shadow in Ben’s past. A large part of his success had been his extensive knowledge of peoples and cultures. In light of that, Ben is content to indulge his curiosity. His knowledge of the planet is near enough to answer every question the boy can think up, and the other two men in their group are able to provide the few answers he doesn’t know.  

“You know a lot about this planet,” Quin remarks when Ben finishes explain the cause of the commotion. It’s an election year, with the planet preparing to crown a new young queen. Every sentient being able is taking the pilgrimage to Theed in order to cast their vote, bringing the typically sedate city to vibrant life as cultures from across the planet mingle and mix.

“Of course I do!” Ben confirms. “Naboo has borne witness to some of the most important moments of Anakin and I’s lives.”

“Naboo? Important? This is a city where the galaxy’s wealthy and politicians go to retire, not a place of import,” Dooku scoffs, lips curled in a sneer.

“Naboo is a city of beginnings!” the Sith Master argues, pausing in the street to seek out great palace of Theed. The crowd parts around them, continuing on their way as he points out the building to his companions. “There, in the Palace of Theed, is where our story begins.”

Ben’s companions follow him out of the flow of traffic and onto the worn footpaths one of Naboo’s many parks, listening intently as he recounts the mission that marked the end of his partnership with Qui-Gon and the beginning of his Bond with Anakin.

Quinlan listens with wide eyes and rapt attention, occasionally interjecting a question when he needs something clarified. Dooku and Tholme, however, grow increasingly quiet as the story progresses. Dooku, Ben knows, is aware of his and Anakin’s true identities; Tholme must be as well, if the looks he throws the man’s way are any indicator. They both know how this story ends—with Qui-Gon struck down at the hands of Maul—but neither of them seem particularly keen on hearing the story in its entirety. Dooku because Jinn was his student, Tholme because Qui-Gon is his friend. It is only morbid curiosity that keeps them listening.

When Ben describes the fight in the palace against the Sith, Quin is appropriately dismayed at the news of Ben’s Master’s death at the hands of the Sith. He’s carefully avoided using too many names, unsure whether or not Quin is aware of his own identity, but Dooku is clearly shaken by what he hears. He’d allied himself—even if only briefly—with the man who, in another life, orchestrated his student’s death. Orchestrated a galaxy-wide civil war. Who, in the end, set Ben and his Apprentice on the paths they now tread.

“And what about the boy?” Quin asks excitedly when Ben draws the story to a close. He’d grown quite fond of the character of the slave boy they encountered on Tatooine. This is not surprising. Anakin had been quite charismatic in his youth, compassionate and generous with that little he had. It’s the reason, Ben suspect, that Padme had never forgotten him over the years despite their only brief encounter. “What happened to him?”

“I trained him, of course,” Ben says with a chuckle. “It took quite a bit of arguing to convince the Council, but they finally allowed me to take him on as my padawan. We were Bonded there, in the palace, and he grew into a powerful Jedi Knight.”

Ben shrugs, leading them back out of the garden and onto the streets. His story had taken more time than he thought, and there are storm clouds beginning to roll in from across the lake. They should seek shelter before the weather hits. “He had me, and he had his wife. Our padawan. He was… content. There was no need for him to seek power. Now come, it’s time we returned.”


	33. Thirty-Threeish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UUUUGH I don't like posting a piece of a chapter, but i've had this bit done for ages and the rest has been giving me shit for a while so here's this. More of what Cal is up to.
> 
> Additionally, my apologies if the formatting is all fucked up, i'm out of town/away from my computer and updating from my cell.

By the time Calamitous arrives at port, a storm has already descended on the city of Theed. The wind whips at his hood and robe, the heavy rain seeping through the layers of his tunic, but the mask covering his face protects it from the stinging cold of the elements. He walks the near-empty cobblestone streets like a phantom, there one moment and gone the next.

In the air, in the Force, he can feel the pulse of the Dark Side. This may be his Master's home planet, but this is not a world known for its natural shade. Calamitous shudders at this artificial Darkness: pain, and rage, and greed brought upon this world by the arrival of the newly minted Sith Order. Even now he can feel them, an epicenter of Dark power, as they slowly move through the streets on the other side of town, undoubtedly slipping from awning to awning like other unfortunate pedestrians caught out in the weather.

He does not make for them, however tempting it may be. He's heard the warnings about how adept the Sith Master is with a blade, not to mention the skills of his student, Tyrannous, and Tholme. To confront the group now would be suicide--this is not a mission to be undertaken alone. Fortunately for Calamitous, even a city as scenic as Theed harbors a shadow of violence. It is not, perhaps, as vast as Coruscant's flourishing lower levels, but it will suit his purpose well enough.

The Sith Apprentice steps down a side street, slipping through its shadows until he comes across a dirty stone staircase, leading down from street level to a small passageway. Below is a door, rusted and paint chipping, its only adornment a small peephole to allow those inside a view out. He raps at the door, a precise series of knocks, and feels the presence of another life form on the other side of the metal.

"What do you want?" A gruff voice sounds, muffled by the door between them.

"Sidious sent me," Calamitous answers, waiting impatiently as the sentient considers that. He used to have patience, before the Dark. Before the Sith. He still isn't sure whether or not he misses it.

The door slides open with the shriek of hinges in need of a good oiling, revealing a Devaronian in worn bounty hunter's attire. "C'mon," he grunts, a jerk of his horned head gesturing for Calamitous to enter. The Sith does not bother to thank the man as he passes; this is not that type of place.

Further down the passageway, the narrow space opens up into an old, dirty bar-front. Large enough to accommodate a healthy number of clients, while small enough to keep things from becoming impersonal, it is precisely the type of place that caters to the criminally inclined. The lights are kept low, casting the faces of its clientele in deep shadow, and a thin layer of grime covers every flat surface. Soft, scratchy music plays from aged speakers, two scantily-clad Twi'Lek women dancing sensuously atop a small raised platform at the center of the room.

Calamitous side-steps a poorly cleaned stain that may or may not be blood as he weaves his way up toward the bar top. He can feel the weight of the other patrons' gazes as they size up the newcomer in their midst. For the most, part they are quick to slide away again, disinterested. Several linger, and the Sith Apprentice forces himself to stand taller--to project a predatory grace that he spent hours in front of a mirror trying to perfect. He is not weak; he will not be made a target.

Those last sets of eyes have found new places by the time he's reached the bar, returning to the dancers or their drinks on tabletops. Calamitous can't help the smug satisfaction he feels about his success.

"What can I get you, doll?" The bartender, a chiseled and heavily scarred Torgruta woman, asks when he draws her attention.

"Whatever you have on tap," he replies. "And a bit of information."

She raises her brow, grabbing a glass and filling it up. "The drink I can do. The information..."

"Nothing that will tarnish your reputation, I assure you." Calamitous fishes credits from his pocket, enough to cover the drink she hands him and a bit more. "Just which of your patrons may be interested in a bit of work."

"I'll ask around."

"Thank you."

Calamitous steps away, carrying his drink to a booth tucked away in the corner of the room.

The first to join him is a Trandoshan, a big, burly creature with muddy and yellowing fangs, its left eye covered by a patch. "Word is you have a job?" He says in his hissing voice, but Calamitous raises one gloved hand to silence him.

"Wait for the others."

The rest are slow to approach, clearly scoping him out before joining them at the table. By the end, there are six of them around the booth. The Trandoshan, a Mando, a pair of Weequay twins, and an Aquilash.

"Thank you all for coming." They don't appear particularly put off by the formality, though they do seem impatient to get to the point. "I'm sure you'd all like to know why you've been summoned here."

"Don't care what the job is," the Mando huffs, leaning back agains the cushion and crossing his arms impatiently. "I'm up for anything, if the price is right."

"I assure you, it will be," Calamitous replies. "My Master--"

"Kinky," he hears one of the Weequay twins snigger to the other, both them immediately dissolving into a juvenile fit of giggles. It takes a fair chunk of Calamitous' already-dwindled supply of self-control not to throw them both across the bar with a flick of the Force. Behind his mask, his teeth grind in frustration; he does not remember bounty hunters being this difficult to deal with in the past.

"My Master," he begins again, "is looking to begin something of a revolution on this planet. He has the soldiers, but even the best soldiers need leaders."

The Trandoshan makes a face. "Don't know much about leadin'."

Calamitous shrugs. "Maybe not, but i'd wager you know a fair bit about destruction. And that, my friends, is what I need. Just... Raise a little hell."

"I can do that," the Trandoshan says, thumbing the thermal detonators on his ammo belt thoughtfully. A glance around the table reveals the others are nodding in agreement.

Behind his mask, Calamitous smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to beat the next bit into submission eventually. Fortunately for everyone, I have the entire chapter after that also written so the wait time shouldn't bee too terrible.


End file.
